


no grave can hold my body down (I'll crawl home to him)

by ScribeofArda



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (wow that tag takes me back), And has to watch Napoleon grieve, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author did not intend this to be sort of the plot of Ghost, But author is very tired and doesn't want to rewrite anything, But comfort in the end, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, I promise, IT IS GOING TO BE OKAY, IT IS ONLY TEMPORARY, Illya dies and becomes a ghost, Illya unable to do anything bc he can barely stop himself falling through walls, Is this the plot of Ghost?, It will just hurt a hell of a lot to get there, Let alone work out how to let Napoleon know he's there, Look I'm gonna be honest, M/M, Mostly hurt, Temporary Character Death, This is sort of the plot of Ghost, YOU WILL BE HAPPY BY THE END, angst like woah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-11 15:31:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16478186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeofArda/pseuds/ScribeofArda
Summary: The last thing Illya remembers is the warehouse exploding and knowing, without a doubt, that he is going to die.He wakes up two weeks later. Napoleon stares straight through him.He doesn't know why he's still stuck here, watching the people he loves mourn him and unable to do anything about it, but at least Napoleon is still alive. He can stay for him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I actually stuck to a deadline and published this fic on Halloween!
> 
> For people who have known me in the comments for a while, they know that I've been working on this story for a while now, and that even for me, this one is evil. Here be angst. You have been warned. I'll tag for any specific warnings in the relevant chapter.

He wakes up slowly. The darkness is comforting, reluctantly letting go as he opens his eyes and blinks against the sunlight. The pale cream of the ceiling of Napoleon’s bedroom greets him. It’s a familiar sight. He’s long since given up on any pretences of living anywhere else.

The other side of the bed is empty when he rolls over, no Napoleon waiting for him to wake up. Illya pushes himself up, frowning slightly when he sees he fell asleep on top of the covers and that he’s still wearing the nondescript combat clothes in shades of grey that he favours when on missions. He must have fallen asleep almost instantly when getting back from casing that warehouse. He wasn’t even awake enough to toe off his shoes before falling into bed, apparently, though at least it doesn’t look like there’s any mud on the covers. Napoleon would have killed him for that.

The cobwebs of sleep seem to lie heavily over him as he gets up, stumbling slightly on the ruck in the rug that Napoleon never seems to fix. Illya glares down at it, but the rug just sits there unrepentantly, looking as smug as a rug is able to. The usual organised chaos of Napoleon covers their bedroom, stacks of books on the bedside table, a sketchbook left half-open on the desk. Illya’s things fit neatly into the gaps between the chaos, his own stack of books next to Napoleon’s, a few guns kept safely in a false compartment under the bed. He can’t see the gun or holster he’d taken out with him, but Napoleon probably had a sudden fit of tidiness and put it away in the closet.

He can’t smell any coffee, which means Napoleon either hasn’t been up for that long or, as Illya suspects, has gotten distracted by something and forgotten to actually grind the coffee beans. He heads out of the bedroom, into the rest of the apartment, stifling a yawn as he goes.

Perhaps it’s the yawn that means he doesn’t hear the raised voices until he’s out of their bedroom. It’s obviously Napoleon, and it sounds like Gaby as well. He heads towards the kitchen, expecting to find Gaby ranting at Napoleon over something idiotic someone did at UNCLE, or Napoleon ranting at Gaby about anything he happens to find annoying, from people who don’t know how to walk properly around New York to the latest stupid megalomaniacs they have to deal with in the line of their job.

He walks into the kitchen and he can actually feel his blood run cold.

Napoleon and Gaby stand across from each other, and Illya sees Gaby’s face first as he walks in. She doesn’t even look at him, far too distracted by whatever is going on, but what worries him are the tears spilling over and falling down her cheeks, the way her entire body is trembling.

“Chop shop girl?” he asks, but Gaby ignores him in favour of glaring through the tears at Napoleon.

“It’s been three weeks,” she says, her voice trying not to tremble. “Three fucking weeks. We’ve looked everywhere. You’ve looked everywhere we can think of, you’ve called every single person you know who owes us favours. There’s nothing, Napoleon. There’s nothing.”

“You can’t say that,” Napoleon says, and at the sound of his voice Illya can’t help but turn to him. It’s an involuntary reaction.

Napoleon looks wrecked. His clothes are rumpled and creased like they normally never are, and there’s at least a week’s worth of stubble across his cheeks. His face is pale, bags under his eyes that Illya doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. “Cowboy?” he asks. “What’s going on?”

Napoleon doesn’t even look at him. “It’s not true,” he says, his voice shaking as he looks at Gaby. “It’s not true, it can’t be true. He wouldn’t have gone. He wouldn’t have left me behind.” His voice breaks on those last words and he seems to crumple in on himself. “He wouldn’t have left me behind,” he says, and his voice is suddenly so small.

Illya is moving before he can think about it. He has no idea what is going on but Napoleon is hurting, Napoleon is standing in their kitchen trying so hard not to break down, and Illya doesn’t know what the problem is or how he can fix it, but he knows that he can start by gathering Napoleon in his arms and giving him something to lean against, someone to listen who he knows won’t judge because he’s done worse, he’ll always have done worse, so he knows nothing else to do than reach for Napoleon and-

His hand passes straight through Napoleon’s shoulder.

Illya jerks back wildly, stumbling over his own feet. He must be dreaming. He must be. But when he reaches out again his hand passes straight through Napoleon’s arm, and Napoleon doesn’t even look up. “Cowboy,” Illya says, stepping in front of Napoleon. “Cowboy. Napoleon!”

Gaby is saying something, her own voice falling to pieces, but Illya can barely hear it over the roaring in his ears. “Napoleon!” he snaps. “Cowboy, listen to me! I’m right here, I’m standing right here! _Napoleon_!”

Nothing. There’s nothing. Illya stumbles blindly. He reaches out to steady himself on the kitchen table, and then without any warning his hand passes straight through the wood. He falls forwards, a surprised shout slipping from his lips. He hits the floor, but there’s no jarring pain, no feeling of cold kitchen tiles pressing against his cheek. There’s nothing but resistance.

 Gaby is shouting something, her voice breaking into shards, and Illya sits up in time to see her stagger forwards with rage and grief and all those things that shouldn’t belong on her face. “You know this is true!” she shouts. “You saw the warehouse, you saw what happened to it. You saw the CCTV. Illya was there, he was in that warehouse when it went up! We have spent weeks tracking down every lead, every single thing. I have spent weeks feeding your denial, following you as you tried to convince yourself that he’s out there somewhere. I’m done. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Don’t you dare give up on him,” Napoleon snarls at her. “Don’t you dare, Gaby Teller. He can’t be gone. That can’t be just it. He can’t just not come home one day, he can’t just leave me behind like this! _He’s not gone_!”

Illya stares at the man he loves, at the tears coursing down his cheeks. “Napoleon,” he whispers. “Napoleon, I’m here. I’m right here.”

Napoleon doesn’t look away from Gaby. Illya can see the defiance in him slowly crumbling, that mask he has cracking in so many places that it’s barely functional anymore. Gaby is standing up straight but he can see her entire body trembling, his little chop shop girl trying so hard not to fall to pieces. She takes a breath and reaches into her pocket. “And this is what I actually came over to give you. Forensics found it in the remains of the warehouse.”

Even from where he’s slumped on the floor, fairly sure he’s going into shock, Illya can see the outline of his watch in the bag in Gaby’s hand. He fumbles for his wrist. There, there’s the familiar shape of his father’s watch sitting where it always is. He wraps his other hand around it, clasping his wrist. His watch is right there on his wrist. But it’s in an evidence bag in Gaby’s hand, charred and buckled from heat. She holds it out. Napoleon barely manages to catch it as she lets it go from a shaking hand.

“They found his watch,” Gaby says. “Waverly gave it to me this morning.” She reaches out and closes Napoleon’s fingers around it. “I’m so sorry, Napoleon, but he’s gone.” She sucks in a trembling breath. “He’s gone,” she gets out. “He’s gone, Napoleon. He’s gone.”

Napoleon chokes on a breath and then collapses in on himself. Illya watches as he crumples to the floor, ending up propped up against the kitchen cabinets. “Illya,” he gets out in between heaving breaths. “Illya. Please, no. Illya. Please.”

Gaby follows him down to the floor, her body trembling. “Illya,” Napoleon breathes, and then he’s crying like Illya’s never seen before, great heaving sobs that rob him of his breath, mouth twisted in an ugly grimace as he curls around the blackened watch sitting in an evidence bag, clutched in hands.

“I’m sorry,” Gaby says, tucking her head into the crook of Napoleon’s neck. Her knuckles are white where she’s gripping Napoleon’s shirt. “I’m sorry, Napoleon, I’m so sorry.”

Illya crawls over the kitchen tiles towards them. He reaches out, but his hand stops just a few inches above Napoleon’s knee. He can’t bring himself to see if he can reach out and touch him. Even now, he can’t feel the cold of the kitchen tiles beneath him, can feel nothing beneath his knees but resistance. “Cowboy,” he murmurs. “Napoleon. I’m right here. Just look up, Napoleon. Just look up at me. I’m right here.”

Napoleon doesn’t look up. He buries his head in Gaby’s shoulder and they cling to each other, sobbing on the floor of their kitchen. Illya can’t do anything but sit there on tiles that should be cold and watch as the man he loves and his chop shop girl fall apart.

0-o-0-o-0

He doesn’t know how long he’s been wandering around the city. It’s been long enough that the sun has set and it’s been dark for a while now, but with this…different body, that doesn’t seem to matter much. He can see just as well as he could when he first opened his eyes. He can only really tell because of the street lights that have turned on, because the normal crowds in New York have quietened down. There are people on the streets, there always are in this city, but they’re slowly turning into the people Illya would normally avoid.

He’s ended up in Central Park, wandering until he feels like he’s covered every inch of the place. Nobody has looked at him. Nobody has noticed him, not when he’s shouted at them, screamed in their faces or whispered right in their ears. After the sixth person who’s arm his hand passed straight through, he’s stopped trying.

He kicks at a park bench just to see what happens. His foot passes right through the metal leg and he falls over, sprawling heavily on the floor. It doesn’t hurt.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Illya growls, picking himself up. “Are you…are you really fucking kidding me?” He kicks at the bench again, throws himself at it with his hands outstretched only to fall through it and hit the ground underneath it. When he rolls over, spitting with fury and grief and something that he can’t name, he can see the bench leg passing straight through his shin. He can’t feel it. He can’t really feel anything.

He moves, and the way his leg slides free of the bench leg makes him feel faintly sick.

He isn’t sure if he quite believes this. Half of him still thinks this might be one epic hallucination, that he’s been drugged and is dreaming up some weird scenario where he dies and becomes…what? A ghost? That makes everything sound even worse. But that voice has become smaller and smaller each time he shouts at someone and they walk right on past, each time he falls through something like it isn’t even there, and he doesn’t wake up.

He’s never believed in any of this, never believed in ghosts or anything like that. But he’s been wandering around Central Park for what feels like hours now. The man he loves is curled up in their apartment, falling to pieces. There’s a charred and blackened watch clutched in his hand, and the same watch still sitting on his wrist. Illya is terrified to take it off. He doesn’t know what will happen if he lets go of it, if it will just disappear into nothing as soon as he stops touching it.

He couldn’t stand seeing Napoleon cry, after a while. He’d slipped out of the open door when Waverly had arrived to offer his condolences or something similar, ran blindly through the apartment building and out onto the street, kept running until he couldn’t hear Napoleon’s sobs echoing in his head. He doesn’t feel tired. He doesn’t feel much of anything like that anymore, he’s realised.

Napoleon had nearly made himself sick, heaving sobs leaving him gasping for breath where he was curled up on the couch. Illya understands it. Even now he still knows what grief feels like, knows how it wraps around a throat until his breath is stolen. He wants to curl around Napoleon and hold him close, tug him again his chest until he can breathe again, until they fall asleep in a tangle of limbs in their bed and everything is a little better in the morning. He wants to run his hand through Napoleon’s hair when it’s soft and curling, tease the curls at the nape of his neck until Napoleon wakes up. He wants to kiss him again. He never kissed him enough when he could.

A sob catches in Illya’s chest, and he grits his teeth before remembering that nobody can hear him anyway and it doesn’t matter, none of it _matters_. He screams into the ground, screams and screams as the grief tears apart his throat and rips its way through his chest. He claws at the ground even though he can’t feel anything beneath his fingertips, screams into the dirt until he can feel his lungs crack and burn, until his fingertips should bleed with the fury that he claws at the dirt with. He heaves a breath and then shouts again, screams the breath out into the ground that he can’t even feel.

His fingers scrabble at the ground as he screams, and then suddenly there’s give, something more than just resistance beneath his fingers. For the briefest of moments, he thinks he can feel the dirt.

His scream cuts off and he pushes himself up to stare at the grooves clawed in the dirt beneath his hands. He tries to trace over them, but they’re gone. He can’t feel anything but mere resistance again.

Illya breathes in and rolls over onto his back. He can see the sky above him, a few stars just making it through the constant light pollution. “Is this a joke?” he asks. He’s not sure why he looks up, not even sure who he’s asking. He never thought he’d believed that there was anything up there.

There is, unsurprisingly, no answer. “A test?” Illya asks. “Some form of punishment? Is this payment for all the lives I’ve taken, some way to punish me for all the mistakes I’ve made? They’ve kept me awake all this time, do they keep me here after I’ve died as well?” He doesn’t bother sitting up, doesn’t bother wiping away the tears on his cheeks that disappear as soon as they fall from his skin.

“I’ve killed people, I know,” he says, staring up at the night sky. “I’ve done horrible things, and not always for the right reasons. I made my peace with dying to this job a long time ago.” He laughs bitterly. “But fuck you for making me stick around to watch Napoleon once I’m gone. Fuck you for doing that to him, for making him grieve for me. He doesn’t deserve this, you bastard!”

Illya laughs again and it turns into a sob that burns through his chest. “Fuck you, if you’re up there,” he spits. “You don’t get to punish Napoleon for everything I’ve done wrong and all the mistakes I’ve made. I bet it looks all neat and easy from up there. I bet you have no idea what it’s like down here for the rest of us, slogging through all the shit you’ve left us in. Well fuck you for leaving us here. Fuck you for thinking you’re good enough, know enough, to judge us.”

He laughs again, feeling that exhaustion that sleep never fixes, the one that aches in his bones. “Fuck you,” he spits again. He hauls himself to his feet, looking down at the gouges in the dirt that he’d left. Maybe there is something more than just being nothing. Maybe, if he can leave marks in the dirt, he can find some way to let Napoleon know he’s there. He looks up at the sky, at the few stars just visible above the city. “I’m going home,” he says. “Let me know when you’ve decided that this is punishment enough, you bastard.”

0-o-0-o-0

He slips back through the apartment front door when someone else leaves. It’s an agent that Illya knows, an empty grocery bag in his hands and a sombre look on his face. He stops outside the door, running a hand over his face. “Shit,” Illya hears him say quietly. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Illya pauses at the half open door, watching as the agent sits down on the steps down to the street and lights a cigarette with a slightly trembling hand. “Oh, Illya, you bastard,” he murmurs. “We all thought you and Solo were going to live forever. Makes us naïve idiots, I guess, but I really thought you two would be okay.” He drags on the cigarette. “Man, this is fucked up,” he murmurs.

“I’m sorry,” Illya says, even though he knows he can’t hear him.

The agent looks up at the sky, cigarette smoke curling from his lips that Illya can’t smell. “We’ll look after him for you, Illya,” he says, twisting the grocery bag in his hands. “We’ll do our best to make sure he’s okay. Gaby too. It’s the least we can do for you.” He drags on the cigarette, and then puts it out beneath the heel of his shoe. “I’m sorry, Illya,” he says quietly as he gets up. “I’m really fucking sorry that it was you.”

Illya only remembers just in time to slip through the door before the agent pushes it shut behind him. There are a couple other people in the building that he vaguely recognises, two agents sat sharing a bottle of something on the stairs that he carefully steps around. He recognises what this is, what they’re doing, and a flicker of something akin to pride almost flares up in his chest. They don’t abandon their own.

“You on watch tomorrow night?” one of them asks the other. Illya pauses to listen in.

The other agent takes a swig from the bottle, and passes it back. “Yeah, I can do tomorrow night, if Martinez is doing tonight. I’ll bring some cards or something, or a book.” She huffs a laugh. “I don’t think Solo will take kindly to it.”

“No, he won’t,” the first says. His voice has a Southern drawl to it that Illya doesn’t recognise. He realises with a jolt that he doesn’t know these agents. He’s not sure if he’s even ever talked to them, and yet they’re here, sitting on the stairs, only a few metres from the apartment door. “But we’ll do it anyway.”

“Yeah, of course,” the other says. She rubs a hand over her face. “God, I can’t believe this has happened.”

“I know,” the first says with a sigh. He takes a swig from the bottle. “I think we were all clinging onto hope after that warehouse explosion, Solo and Gaby most of all. But they found his watch, and I think Solo has finally realised this is all true.” He drinks again from the bottle before passing it back. “Goddammit, Illya. You’ve left us a fine mess here.”

“It’s not like I wanted this to happen,” Illya mutters. He remembers a little of it now, remembers going into that warehouse to realise something was wrong. He’d shot someone, he thinks, maybe more than one person, and then there was a searing heat and a piercing cold and then nothing.

“I’ll have a proper rota for the watch and everything in front of Waverly tomorrow,” the first one says. “He’s said we can all take shifts to keep an eye on Solo until the funeral at least. Gaby as well, though I think she’s going to be in the workshop at UNCLE for most of the time, so at least people will always be around there. We’re on reduced duty until the funeral. Waverly is trying to recall as many people as possible to be there.”

“I heard a rumour some of the Russians are going to be there,” the other says. “Oleg. Some KGB agents, a spetsnaz commander or two. People Illya served with back in Russia.” She glances at him. “Is that true?”

The agent shrugs. “Don’t know, but it might be,” he replies. “I’ve heard rumours that Waverly has negotiated with the government to let three Russian visas go through if they’re only here for two days and they’re monitored by us the entire time.” He huffs. “Don’t know why Waverly is letting them come. What the hell did they ever do for Illya?”

“They made me into this,” Illya says quietly. He slides down the wall until he’s slumped against it. “They were my family, before I had Napoleon and Gaby and all of you.” He looks over at them, remembering all those funerals in Moscow, shoulders hunched against the snow as they watched coffins be lowered into the ground. “We used to sing, sometimes. Not the stupid bugles you Americans have. Just us. It sounds much better than your obsession with bugles. No ridiculous ceremony, no false pretences about what we were. Just us, standing around a coffin and wondering who was up next.”

“Is it going to be a full military funeral?” the other agent asks. “Full honours and everything?”

The first agent shrugs. “Up to Solo, I guess,” he says. “I’d imagine they’ll give him military honours at the least, but I don’t know if it will be American. You know, with the whole cold war thing going on.”

“Please don’t let Napoleon make it American,” Illya mutters, leaning his head back against the wall. “He has to know how much I’ll hate watching that. God, if they give him a folded flag I will find a way to haunt them, I swear I will. “

“We’re going to have to pull double duty for the funeral,” the other agent murmurs. She reaches for the bottle between them. “It’s going to be hell for Solo and Gaby, especially if Oleg and his lackeys do turn up.”

“They’re not lackeys,” Illya mutters. Truthfully, he doesn’t know who might be coming with Oleg, if anyone even is. Oleg used to call up every so often, threats of taking him back to Russia slowly becoming less and less convincing until it felt more like he was just calling to check up on him. A couple of spetsnaz agents got in touch with him when they were on a mission in Belarus, men he’d served with in the spetsnaz before Oleg took him to Moscow. They’d gone to a bar whilst Napoleon slept off a concussion and gotten through two bottles of vodka, but Illya has no idea whether he meant enough for them to bully Waverly into getting visas to come to his funeral. If it were the other way around, if one of them had died over in Moscow, Illya has no idea if he would go.

“I’ll stop Solo from punching Oleg if you hold Gaby off from the rest of them,” the first agent says with a laugh. “And we can both face Waverly’s British ire for it afterwards.”

“Waverly will do fuck all,” the other points out. “He secretly wants to punch Oleg and the Russians in the face, I’m sure.” She laughs, and drains the dregs left in the bottle. “I’m going to head home. Are you staying tonight?”

“Only until Martinez turns up, and then I’ll go home and get some sleep,” the first agent says. He raises the empty bottle in a salute as the other gets to her feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” He watches her leave, and then slumps against the wall. He’s only a few feet from where Illya is sitting, staring right at him and not seeing anything. “Oh, Illya,” he says quietly in that Southern drawl. “It shouldn’t have been you.”

Illya waits, but he doesn’t say anything else. After a while he gets to his feet, momentarily surprised by the lack of joints protesting at the movement, the way his knees don’t ache as he unfolds himself. He tugs at the collar of his shirt to look down at his chest. The scars are still there, at least the ones he can see, but he can’t feel that slight tug of scar tissue in his shoulder anymore. It’s strange. He’d never noticed all those small aches until they’re gone.

He gets to the apartment door before he realises the problem. The door is firmly shut. Judging by the time, it’s unlikely anyone is going to open it anytime soon. Illya curses under his breath and slumps against the wall opposite, resigned to waiting until someone comes along and he can slip in behind them when they open the door.

He doesn’t keep track of the time, but it can’t have been more than twenty minutes before he hears something muffled on the other side of the door. Illya gets to his feet, surprised again by the lack of pain in the movement, and steps closer. It isn’t until he’s almost pressed up against the door that he can make out the sobs on the other side.

“Oh, Cowboy,” he murmurs. Instinctively he reaches for the doorknob, trying to find any way to get the door open and get into the apartment, but his hand passes right through it. “Oh,” he says abruptly. “I’m an idiot.”

He looks at the door and braces himself. “This is going to work,” he says firmly to himself. “You know this is going to work.”

He steps forwards into the door. There’s a brief sickening moment of disorientation, of the rational part of his brain telling him frantically that he should not be doing this right now, that doors do not become intangible and he absolutely should not be walking through one like something out of a cheap ghost story. That part of his brain, though, has been getting quieter and quieter ever since Illya’s hand first passed through Napoleon’s shoulder like there was nothing there. And then he’s standing in the apartment.

It’s surprisingly neat. There’s an empty scotch bottle on the coffee table, and the kitchen looks to be somewhat of a mess, but it’s less than Illya thought he’d come back to.

Napoleon is curled up on their bed, staring at the wall. Illya doesn’t think he’s ever seen him like this. He’s seen him cry, of course. Their line of work leaves more marks than most, and though Illya is perfectly aware of how the spetsnaz and the KGB mostly beat the idea of showing any emotion out of him, though he knows the US army and the CIA had similar methods for Napoleon, it wouldn’t be possible to do what they do and not fall to pieces over it from time to time. He’s seen Napoleon cry silent tears in the middle of the night when a mission went wrong and someone died who shouldn’t have, he’s seen him sob when Illya finally woke up after a week unconscious from a stab wound and resulting infection. But he’s never seen this.

Napoleon is still dressed, those fine clothes and suits useless as armour now. It had taken Illya so long to learn how to see past them, past the Italian weave and pomade, pinstripes and polished leather. It had taken even longer for Napoleon to learn when he didn’t need it, when he could put on a rumpled shirt and sweatpants and Illya would still look at him the same way. Even now, Napoleon retreats behind his expensive suits and sunglasses when he feels threatened, charm oozing out of his voice.

Now, Napoleon’s dress shirt is creased, untucked from his trousers like he never normally allows. His hair has fallen out of its carefully pomaded shape and is messy, sticking out in a hundred directions. Illya instinctively goes forwards to him. He’s done this a thousand times before, climbing onto the bed to curl up around Napoleon whilst he sleeps. Sometimes he wakes Napoleon up and Napoleon rolls over with a sly smile, kissing him slow and steadily until Illya becomes impatient and pushes him back down against the mattress, a grin spreading over his face.

He doesn’t want to think about the fact that he won’t be ever to do that again.

He sits down on the floor because he’s not sure if he’ll just fall through the bed if he tries to sit on it, and watches Napoleon try not to fall apart. “I’m sorry,” he says again. Napoleon doesn’t react.

“I love you,” Illya tries. Napoleon blinks, and stares at the wall. The words fall hollow.

“I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you,” Illya says. “I wanted to grow old with you.”

He feels exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. It’s a familiar feeling, that weight that clings to his bones and drags him down until he can barely find the energy to speak. He thinks he moved the dirt earlier, thinks he might have felt something, but he’s not sure. He might have just been imagining it. He might never be able to touch Napoleon again, might be consigned to watching him live the rest of his live without him.

He’d never really let himself think about it, but he knows now that it’s always been there, in the back of his mind. That image of him and Napoleon, retiring together and living the rest of their lives in a little corner of peace they would carve out for themselves, has existed ever since Illya first realised he wouldn’t just die for Napoleon but live for him as well. He thinks they would have moved out to the country, though close enough to a city that Napoleon could still be around the energy of a lot of people crammed into a small space if he wanted to. A small farmhouse, maybe, with enough space for Illya to grow some vegetables, maybe keep a horse or two. He’s always wanted to learn how to ride properly.

“You could have painted on the front porch,” Illya murmurs. “I would have bought you any painting materials you wanted. We could have a couple of nice cars, so that we can drive into the city when you want to be around more people or go to the Met again. We wouldn’t be that far away, enough that we could drive back home in the evening. You would insist on stopping the car on the side of the road just to appreciate the sunset properly, and I would kiss you for it.”

He stops just to breathe, to remind himself that he can’t taste the smell of pine trees on the air, the damp green of a summer morning when the mist hasn’t quite given up its hold on the ground yet. He can’t smell anything. It’s weirder than he thought it would be, to not smell anything at all.

Napoleon hasn’t moved, staring at the wall with a blank expression that Illya hates. “I would have grown old with you,” he says, and he can feel in the pointless way his chest moves, breathing when he doesn’t even need to, how empty the words are.

0-o-0-o-0

He doesn’t sleep. He shuts his eyes after a while, long after Napoleon exhausts himself and falls into an uneasy sleep, but he can’t sleep. He doesn’t even feel tired, unless the exhaustion that’s dogged him most of his life, the one that was carved into his bones early on and only seemed to let up when a certain thief stole his target away and dropped him in a minefield, unless that counts as well.

It's almost funny. When he was…

Before this, he would have given a lot to not be tired, to be able to stay up for days on end chasing down leads without needing to curl up in a corner and get enough sleep so that he can still function. He would have loved it during his days in the spetsnaz, to not have to worry about falling asleep during sentry duty or to be able to keep going when everyone else was dragging their feet around him. Now, though, he doesn’t care. He just wants to be able to close his eyes and go to sleep.

It’s about four in the morning when he gives in and gets to his feet. Napoleon is asleep and has been for a while, hasn’t woken up gasping for breath for a few hours now. Illya needs to work out what he can do, whether this new body is useful for anything at all.

It turns out, the answer is probably not. He can’t touch any of the furniture, just falls straight through when he tries to sit on the couch or on the bed, or on any of the obnoxious armchairs that Napoleon insists on having in the apartment. He tries to lean against the kitchen counters and experiences a disorientating blur of motion when he falls straight through into the middle of the counters. When he opens his eyes, he can see the edge of a cereal box sticking out from his cheek.

“This is…weird,” he says, in lieu of anything else to say. “Really weird.” He opens his mouth, wondering briefly if he could taste the cereal. Predictably, there’s nothing.

There’s another disorientating blur of motion, though slower this time, as he pushes himself up to his feet and steps out from the counters. “So no furniture, fine,” he mutters. “Doors are out as well. But I leant against a tree in Central Park.” He frowns. Maybe it’s only natural things that he can touch, but then where does that end? The kitchen table is made out of wood, after all. Maybe only living things, then, but he can’t touch Napoleon, can’t touch another human at all.

He frowns again, and looks down at his feet. “Why can I stand on the floor, then?” he asks out loud.

As soon as those words leave his mouth, there’s a weird sensation under his feet and he watches in horror as his feet slowly start to sink beneath the kitchen tiles. “Oh, fuck this,” he says. “This is not happening.”

He launches forwards because he doesn’t know what else to do, feeling strangely like he’s trying to claw his way out of quicksand. “The floor is real, this damn floor is real and actually here,” he hisses, and suddenly there it is underneath him again, solid resistance that feels like nothing but it still there. Illya rolls onto his back, gasping for breath that he doesn’t need. “ _Bozhe moi_ ,” he mutters. “So, I have to believe it will be solid if I want it to be solid? Is that it?”

He lies there for a few minutes, just thinking that the kitchen tiles are real until he’s certain that he’s still lying on them and not slowly drifting down through the apartment building. He really doesn’t want to get stuck in the foundations of this place, surrounded by rattling pipes and rats for all eternity.

“Right,” he says. “Let’s see if this works.”

He hauls himself to his feet. The lack of aches as he does so still surprises him for a moment, the way his body moves without protest or how all the scar tissue his body is riddled with doesn’t catch like it used to. Illya shakes it off. He has more important things to deal with right now. Napoleon has no idea he’s still here, still watching his back like he always is. He needs to find a way to fix that, or all of this is just…pointless.

It takes about an hour and multiple attempts, but eventually Illya is sitting in the kitchen chair at the table, hands resting on the table top. He still can’t feel the chair or table beyond mere resistance, can’t feel the slats in the back of the chair or the gouge under his right hand on the table, still there from when he’d fallen asleep at the table and Napoleon had woken him up suddenly.

It had been fairly early on in their partnership, when they were still working out how to move around each other without snapping at each other’s throats. Still, somehow Illya had ended up in this apartment after a gruelling mission that had given Gaby a sprained ankle and concussion from being driven off the road and running through some godforsaken woods to catch their suspect, and had left him and Napoleon battered and exhausted. Napoleon had insisted on making food for them, and the fledgling team ended up in his apartment as he cooked something that looked far too complicated for Illya’s exhausted mind to follow. Gaby fell asleep on the sofa fairly quickly, and Illya had slumped in the same chair he’s so precariously sitting in now. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, but according to an amused Napoleon afterwards, it had taken less than ten minutes before he’d fallen asleep, head on the table.

Of course, when the food was ready Napoleon had grabbed Illya’s shoulder to wake him up, and Illya had promptly responded by drawing a knife. Napoleon always found it far too amusing to ever bother repairing the kitchen table. Besides, he’d always claimed that the gouge added history, and then would go off on one of his long diatribes over how rich people with too little sense always tried to have damaged art restored to the point that all the history was removed from the canvas.

Now, Illya tries to trace over the gouge he left, and he can feel nothing. But at least his hand isn’t passing straight through like there’s nothing there.

On a passing whim, he pushes against the table. Nothing happens.

“Really?” Illya asks. “That makes no sense.” He pauses. None of this makes any sense, though. He’s dead, and he’s sitting here at a kitchen table that he can’t really feel, and an hour ago he’d fallen straight through the kitchen cabinets like they weren’t even there. Napoleon is sleeping the sleep of the exhausted and grieving in the other room, the bedroom that had slowly become theirs, with the charred and twisted watch still clutched in his hand whilst it sits undamaged on Illya’s wrist.

He gets up and wanders into the living room for lack of something to do. It’s still dark outside, though Illya thinks the sun might just try to brave the streets of New York soon. There’s too much light pollution to see anything but a haze above the city, and Illya briefly finds himself wishing for the eastern taigas of Russia, the muffled world when the snow falls and everything is quiet for just a little while. Though the spetsnaz is always going to be a tangle of regret and nostalgia and bitterness in his chest, though it carved into his bones in a way he still is unwilling to admit, he will always remember standing outside on sentry duty in the middle of the taiga and looking up at the snow falling in gentle flurries from above. He loves- _loved_ , he supposes now- New York because Napoleon is here, but there’s a sudden pang in his chest when he remembers standing and staring up at the snow all those years ago.

“Is this still a test?” he asks softly, looking out at some random point above the city skyline, the sky that’s hazy with the light from the city below. “Is there something you want me to do?”

Predictably, there is no answer. Illya sighs, because nobody can hear him now. “I’ve never…I’ve always known I’ve done terrible things in the names of people who weren’t trying to do anything particularly good,” he says slowly. “I’ve killed a lot of people. Often enough, it wasn’t even because it was down to them or myself, it was just the orders that I was given. I’ve ruined the lives of even more people, one way or another. So if this is some sort of punishment for that, for all that I’ve done wrong in your eyes, then fine. I guess I deserve that.”

He pauses, searching in vain for anything beyond the vague haze over the city. “But if, and this is a big _if_ , you’re really up there and doing this to me,” he says slowly, the words being dredged up from somewhere he didn’t even know existed, “then you should know that I found Napoleon and it…it made me want to be something better. He made me…well, he made me want to try and help again. I think maybe I did the same for him, or used to, anyway.”

He rubs a hand across his face. “The point is, you sit up there, if you even exist at all, which honestly I used to seriously doubt but now,” he looks down at his body that looks so solid but isn’t even there, “I’m not so sure about…well, if you sit up there then you have no idea what it’s like for all of us down here just trying to live. Maybe you think it’s funny, watching us all scrabble around in the dirt and hurting each other because that’s all we’ve been taught how to do. I don’t know. And out of all of that blood and muck and everything we’ve crawled through, Napoleon still managed to make me want to be better. He made my want to try.”

He reaches out and tries to press his hand against the glass of the window. It starts to sink through, and Illya frowns in concentration until the glass is solid underneath his hand. “I don’t know what the hell this is,” he says quietly. “Or what you want from me. If this is some sort of punishment, then maybe I deserve it, but Napoleon made me want to be a better person and he doesn’t deserve this. He’s never deserved any of this.”

0-o-0-o-0

Agents turn up at Napoleon’s apartment in the morning. Illya watches from the corner of the room as they bully Napoleon into taking a shower, shaving and putting on some new clothes. He got tired fairly quickly of dodging out of the way of all the agents moving around the apartment and walking right through him when he wasn’t quick enough.

One of them starts raiding the fridge to cook something that looks like French toast, though Illya can’t actually smell anything, and another starts cleaning. Napoleon looks mildly shell-shocked throughout it all, like he can’t quite believe the other agents care enough to do all of this for him. The barest whisper of a smile tugs at Illya’s lips. Napoleon, for all his charm and quick wit and that silver tongue that got him into trouble but got him out of it every time, has never seemed to realise how much other people in UNCLE look up to him.

“So,” one of the agents says, handing Napoleon a plate that seems to be groaning under the weight of the food on it and pushing him to sit down on the couch, “Waverly is pulling out all the stops for the funeral. Military honours to be carried out by Russian soldiers from the embassy in Washington, which somehow we still have even though it’s the bloody Cold War. Waverly had to pull a lot of strings to get that one.” The agent sighs, running a hand over his face.

“He also pulled a lot of strings to allow Oleg and someone called Lieutenant Chernyak into the country for the funeral, probably because they will then owe him a massive favour which he can cash in any time. They’ll fly in on the morning, be escorted directly to the funeral, and then fly directly back to Moscow. They won’t ever be out of our sight.”

Napoleon looks up at that. “Why the hell would they want to come…to be at the funeral?” he asks, and Illya can feel something twist in his chest at the sound of Napoleon’s voice nearly breaking on the word _funeral_. “I don’t even know who that other person is. Illya never talked about him.” He pauses, staring at the plate of food in his lap. “Illya never really talked much about that part of his life.”

“I didn’t want to burden you with anything else,” Illya says quietly from the corner of the room he’s standing in. “I was already vulnerable to you. You didn’t need the weight of all that I did in Russia as well.”

“He was with Kuryakin- Illya- in the spetsnaz,” the agents tells Napoleon. “From the rumours I’ve heard going around about this, though the man upstairs is being predictably tight-lipped about this, he and Illya went way back. Closest thing Illya had to a partner before the KGB, maybe.” He shrugs. “I guess we’ll all find out at the funeral.”

“That isn’t quite right,” Illya says quietly. “Markos wasn’t my partner. He was…we came up through training together. We served together, before Oleg took me out the spetsnaz and into the KGB. We kept in touch, when I went to the KGB. Even worked on a few missions together.” He huffs a brief laugh. “The one with those goats always made a good story for new recruits.” He pauses. “I don’t know why he’s coming to the funeral,” he says. “I didn’t know that he still…cared, I suppose.”

Of course, neither the agent nor Napoleon hear him. “Do you have anything that you want to happen at the funeral?” the agent asks gently. “Any music, or readings? Something Illya would have liked?”

Napoleon stares blankly at the floor. “He’s dead,” he says quietly. “It doesn’t matter what he would have liked.”

Illya just catches the agent’s barely suppressed eye roll. “Well, what do you want at the funeral, then?” he asks. “What would mean something to you? Flowers, maybe?”

Illya can recognise the look on Napoleon’s face. It’s not something he’s seen on Napoleon’s face before, but he recognises it anyway. He’s seen plenty of people become so lost in their own heads, for whatever reason, that it’s impossible to string together a coherent thought in their own head, let alone make it leave their lips and form itself in the air. The fact that it’s on Napoleon’s face now, the fact that Napoleon is the one staring blankly at the carpet with trembling hands curled into fists in his lap, makes something twist again in Illya’s chest.

“My mother’s favourite flowers were tulips,” Illya says quietly. “I used to buy her a bouquet whenever I came back from a mission. She would press one flower from each bouquet between heavy books, keep them in a book along with the wildflowers I would sometimes bring back whenever on training in the taiga. Those were mostly crocuses, I think, always a little damaged from being pressed in my notebook, but she kept them anyway right next to the tulips.”

He’s not quite sure why he’s telling Napoleon this now, when he can’t even hear him. Maybe it’s to make up for never telling him before.

Napoleon still doesn’t say anything, and the agent looks sympathetic. “It’s okay, we don’t have to work everything out right now,” he says. “How are you holding up?”

Napoleon takes a breath, and then another. He glances around the room, looking straight through where Illya is standing. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice quiet. “I just…I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to do anything else.”

The agent grimaces. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “Well, I don’t quite know, but I can imagine. Just take it one day at a time, okay? We’re all here if you need help, need someone to talk to or even someone to go a few rounds with in a boxing ring.”

There’s that strange feeling of pride again in Illya’s chest at those words, at seeing all these people here. They take care of their own. They’ll always take care of their own.

Napoleon clears his throat. “I take it Waverly has put me on leave?” he asks, his voice rough. “Am I even allowed to go into the office?”

“You’ll have to ask Waverly, but I think so,” the agent says. “There’s bereavement leave for UNCLE agents when agents are killed, but your situation is…a little different. You can have as much time as you want, and probably can come into UNCLE if you want, but I doubt Waverly is going to let you anywhere near a mission for a while.”

“What, worried I’m going to snap and murder people trying to hunt down whoever killed Illya?” Napoleon snaps.

Illya rolls his eyes as the agent looks up to just meet Napoleon’s gaze. “Pretty much,” he says evenly. “There’s already an investigation running. We have suspects.”

“Who?” Napoleon asks sharply. “You know I’ve been working this since the warehouse explosion, I had a good few leads before…before what forensics found. There are files on it in my office, in the box under my desk. Have you looked at the mob hitman that we tangled with last year, he just-”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” the agent says firmly. “You’re not allowed to be involved in this investigation, Solo. Neither is Teller, for that matter. She’s in the workshop at UNCLE, by the way, doesn’t look like she’ll leave any time soon, and there are people there for when she needs them. Just like there are here.”

“What, you’re watching me?” Napoleon asks. “Waiting for the moment I snap? Or are you just here to make sure I don’t disappear on my own suicidal mission?”

Illya can’t help but roll his eyes. “Don’t be stupid, Cowboy,” he says, crossing the room until he’s standing beside the couch where Napoleon is slumped. “They’re just trying to look after you. Last time I got badly hurt, you broke into two medical facilities. They’re right to be worried, and I can’t stop you doing anything stupid now.”

Illya knows, he’s very well aware of the reputation the two of them have- _had_ , he supposes, at UNCLE. Even before they stopped that nervous dance around each other and Illya realised just how much he would have given for Napoleon, they were known for reckless acts for each other. Napoleon likes to keep listening to the office gossip about them, and he would always fill Illya in during boring stakeouts or holed up in safehouses, waiting for a clear moment to get out. Sometimes he wonders how, with all the gossip that circulated UNCLE about them, ever since Berlin, it took him and Napoleon so long to work out just what they meant to each other.

“Waverly is offering grief counselling with the psychiatrists at UNCLE,” the agent is saying when Illya starts paying attention again. “If you want to take him up on the offer, then just call this number to sort out an appointment.” He hands over a business card.

Napoleon doesn’t take it. “I don’t need _grief counselling_ ,” he spits. “I’m fine.”

“The man you loved just died,” the agent says steadily. “You’re nowhere near fine. You’re upset and grieving and angry, and you need to work through what has happened. It will take time, but it will get better.”

“Bullshit,” Napoleon snaps, getting to his feet. “Don’t presume to know how I’m feeling or what the hell I’m going through! Don’t presume to try and tell me what I have to do, that I should spill my feelings to some doctor in some office when they don’t know anything about me or what has happened. Illya is _dead_!” His voice cracks on those words, and Illya’s hand sinks through Napoleon’s shoulder, forgetting what he is now in his instinct to comfort Napoleon.

“Illya is dead,” Napoleon says again, his voice slowly breaking apart. “I loved him, and he is _gone_. So don’t you dare tell me how I should grieve him, that it’s not right for me to be angry because someone killed Illya.” His hands are trembling, but the anger has shored up his voice, filled in the cracks and set the tinder alight.

“Get out of my apartment,” he says to the agent. “Get out. Now.”

“Calm down,” the agent says, getting to his feet slowly. “Solo, you’re grieving, but you need to calm down and take a breath. It’s going to be-”

“If you tell me it’s all going to be _okay_ ,” Napoleon spits, “so help me God, I will kick you out of my apartment via the window.”

“ _Bozhe moi_ ,” Illya mutters. “Cowboy, stop it. Just stop it. They’re only trying to help.” He circles around the sofa, coming to stand in front of Napoleon. Napoleon, of course, can’t see him. He stares right through him at the agent standing behind Illya, the one now reaching out for Napoleon through him. Illya can see the arm sticking through his side, just at the bottom of where his ribs should be, if he even has any ribs anymore.

He’s missed part of whatever the agent was saying, too busy studying the new lines on Napoleon’s face that he’s put there. Napoleon’s face contorts in fury at whatever the agent says. “Get the _fuck_ out of my apartment,” he snaps. “Get out!”

The agent looks disappointed, but leaves anyway. “There’ll be one of us in the lobby downstairs,” he says over his shoulder. “They’ll be there all day, in case they’re needed.”

“Get out,” Napoleon snaps again. He slams the door shut behind them, the hinges rattling in the frame. Illya watches as he stands there for a long moment, tension thrumming through his shoulders in a way that Illya recognises. “Christ,” he spits, leaning against the door. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ.”

Illya can see it in the way Napoleon turns, the set to his jaw and the line of his shoulders, so he isn’t surprised when the glass vase on the side shatters against the wall, water splashing across the carpet and predictably right through Illya. Napoleon shouts wordlessly, a tangled knot of grief and rage put into sound, and Illya can feel the sound pass straight through him and lodge somewhere deep within his chest. A glass follows the vase, one shard flying through Illya and embedding itself in the carpet.

“Napoleon,” he says, stepping forwards, ineffectively dodging the coffee table lamp that passes straight through him anyway. The coffee table soon follows it, one of the legs splintering when it hits the wall. “Napoleon,” Illya says again. “Cowboy. Stop it.”

The sofa proves too heavy to lift but the armchair is light enough to be toppled over, the cushions strewn across the living room. “Napoleon!” Illya says sharply, turning so that a book on the coffee table passes by him and not through him. “Cowboy, stop this! You’re going to break something that actually is of value to you.”

Napoleon, of course, doesn’t hear him. Illya doubts that even if he could communicate with him, Napoleon wouldn’t be able to hear him over the roaring in his ears and the sound of shattering glass. Illya can only stand there, helpless, as Napoleon works his way through the room until nearly everything is broken and strewn on the floor. None of it really matters, not until Napoleon reaches for the book that has been left on the mantelpiece.

“ _Napoleon_!” Illya shouts, starting forwards as if he can do anything at all. “ _Don’t!_ ”

The lights suddenly flicker and Napoleon pauses, arm still raised with the book gripped so tight that his knuckles are white. Illya takes a cautious step forwards, arm outstretched as if he can talk Napoleon down somehow. Napoleon heaves a breath, and another as he lowers his arm to look at the book.

“Oh, Peril,” he murmurs softly. He flips open the front cover, fingers trace over the first page where Illya knows there is a scrawled pencil inscription written in his mother’s hand, the Russian cursive nearly unintelligible to Napoleon when he had first shown it to him. Napoleon’s chin wobbles and then he’s slumped against the wall, sliding down until he’s curled up on the floor. “Oh, Peril,” he murmurs again, and a sob slips through his lips.

Illya stands there and watches him grieve, again. He glances up at the lights, but there’s no flicker. Maybe he was imagining things. Maybe he had nothing to do with the lights. Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are very welcome, they make my day. The next chapter will go up probably tomorrow evening.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an actual chapter, I've managed to get access to my documents and can now upload the rest of the story!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am currently on my parent's laptop and have managed to access my documents from the cloud, which means I can put up the next chapter! For now, I'm going to keep in the previous chapter informing you of the crash, just until I find out what has happened to my laptop and whether I'll be able to get it fixed anytime soon (I really really don't want to have to buy a new one).
> 
> Thanks everyone for your comments, both on this fic and Narrative Casualties, asking to be kept informed of what's going on. A lot of you I've never really seen in the comments before, and it's so nice to know that you're there and invested in the story (and also means more people I can break with this story).
> 
> This chapter is painful. Really painful. I'm sorry (not really). If you want to blame someone other than me, blame somedrunkpirate (both on ao3 and Tumblr) who has both supported how much angst I've stuffed into this fic and helped me make certain scenes 1000% worse.
> 
> I want to make it clear here, in terms of warnings for this chapter: _there are allusions to suicide in this chapter_. There is no attempt at suicide, but a character does appear to consider it, and another character has a typical reaction to what they see. I will bold the scene break (0-o-0-o-0) before the scene. Please be careful if you feel you need to, and if you want to know more about the scene before you read it, please drop me a comment or ask me on Tumblr [here](https://theheirofashandfire.tumblr.com).

Illya wanders out of the kitchen, where he’s spent the past five or so hours trying to make the overhead lights flicker by shouting at them, to find agents walking in through the front door. They’re all dressed in black suits.

“I forgot it was today,” Illya says, staring at them as Gaby follows them into the apartment, black dress on and impeccable makeup that doesn’t quite hide the dark circles under her eyes or the clench of her jaw. Her purse looks heavy. Illya is torn between thinking there’s a wrench, a pistol or vodka hidden in it. Knowing her, and knowing the reaction she’d had when she’d been told about the Oleg and Markos coming to the funeral, Illya is willing to bet it might be all three.

He’s spent a while with her, over the past week when watching Napoleon grieve has been too much for him to bear. It’s become easy enough to just step into cars as they wait at intersections, stepping out again when they get near enough to UNCLE, though the transition from moving car to the road is always jarring. He’s used to being thrown out of cars at high speeds, lucky not to break any bones as he rolls across the tarmac. Just being able to step from the car to the road with only a disorientating feeling for a few seconds is very weird.

Napoleon appears from his bedroom. He looks immaculate. His suit is the incredibly expensive one Illya doesn’t think he’s ever been allowed to even touch, Italian wool perfectly tailored to Napoleon’s body, and a black tie to match. Napoleon is doing up his cuffs as he walks out, head bowed.

“Darling,” Gaby says softly. She steps up to him, brushing a piece of fluff from his shoulder. “Are you ready?”

Napoleon looks up at her. “No,” he says quietly, lips curling in a grimace that he quickly stifles. He fiddles with his cuffs, one cufflink tumbling from his hands to hit the carpet with a muted noise.

Gaby picks it up, and finishes doing up his cuffs, fingers slotting the cufflinks into place. Napoleon smiles quietly at her, and tugs at his sleeves until his jacket is sitting evenly. “Ready to go?” Gaby asks.

“Ready,” Napoleon replies. Illya follows them all the way downstairs, wondering how he could have forgotten that it was his own funeral today.

They’re silent in the car, Gaby and Napoleon sat in the back with another agent driving. Illya sits in between Gaby and Napoleon; about halfway to the cemetery, Gaby reaches through Illya to take Napoleon’s hand. It’s drizzling slightly, which only seems appropriate.

“Remember, Oleg and that Chernyak guy are both going to be here,” the agent driving says as they pull up at the cemetery. “We’ve had eyes on them ever since they touched down in New York. Waverly is already there with them. We’ll keep them away from you, for the whole thing if you want.”

Napoleon nods, and Gaby just looks grim and determined. It’s been a somewhat familiar expression of hers over the past week or so. She’s been camped out in the workshop at UNCLE for most of it, when she’s not in their apartment with Napoleon.Various agents have been trying to keep her company, but Illya was surprised to see the ferocity with which the engineers in the workshop defended her and kept them away when she needed it. They also smuggled a surprising amount of vodka into the workshop when she needed it, though Illya feels like maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. The engineers are always resourceful when it comes to equipping them for their missions, building them whatever they need for whatever purpose, which will inevitably be used for some other, much weirder, purpose. They shouldn’t find it too hard to get a few bottles of vodka past security.

Illya stares out of the window, following Napoleon’s gaze as they drive through New York. He loses track of the time, just staring at the grey city, until a jolt from Napoleon draws him back inside the car. “Where are we going?” Napoleon asks, his voice small, like he doesn’t want to know the answer.

The agent glances in the rearview mirror. “Nobody told you?” he asks gently. “Solo?”

Napoleon stares out of the window. “Cypress Hills,” he murmurs as the cemetery first comes into view, marble headstones lining the gentle green hill.

“All UNCLE agents are buried here, unless they wish to be buried elsewhere,” the agent tells them. “As Illya never told anyone where he wanted to…end up, then Waverly decided the proper way to honour him would be here.”

“It’s an American cemetery,” Illya says, out of principle, but the cemeteries of Moscow are a long way away right now, and there’s a strange feeling of almost something close to pride at knowing Waverly thought him enough to choose this place. He could have a worse place for his headstone.

The car pulls to a stop behind a long line of more black cars. People are already walking across the grass, sombre men and women in black suits and dresses. Illya recognises most of them as UNCLE agents, but there are more still than he only knows in passing, faces he’s walked past day after day in the halls of UNCLE, listened to over coms or received files from them but never stopped to talk to. There are so many more people here than he thinks he deserves.

There are more people slowly filling up a space across the grass, and Illya sees it the same time as Napoleon and Gaby, judging by the sharp breaths from both of them. Gaby recovers first, squeezing Napoleon’s hand. “Ready?” she asks.

“Not at all,” Napoleon breathes, but he opens the car door and gets out.

Illya follows them across the grass. People clear a space for them, sympathetic looks on their faces, a comforting gesture here and there. Soldiers surround the grave, wearing Russian uniforms and carrying Russian flags. They’re standing to attention.

There’s no coffin there. Illya knows they never found a body they could definitely identify as his. He wonders if there even is one out there.

When he looks up, Napoleon and Gaby have sat down in the front row of the chairs. Waverly is sat next to Napoleon, other agents surrounding them and slowly filling up the chairs. More are standing around them, overflowing and spilling across the grass, quiet murmurs amongst them. A few agents stand apart, and Illya tries not to flinch when he sees Markos with them, Oleg there as well and looking as sour as usual.

“Markos,” he says, walking over to them. “Markos, can you hear me?”

Markos doesn’t look away from the photo of Illya in his dress uniform that is set beside the carved headstone. “Sirs, take your seats please,” one of the UNCLE agents says. “It’s about to begin. Please don’t try to interact with Agent Solo or Teller until the funeral has finished. If you try to provoke anyone, we will make you leave.”

“I know,” Markos says wearily, that clipped Russian voice that Illya suddenly remembers from nights patrolling together, huddled over small fires trying to eke out whatever warmth they can without giving away their position. “We’re not going to start anything, as I’ve told you multiple times before. I’m just here to pay my respects to an old friend.”

The seats fill up and overflow, and slowly the quiet murmur falls to barely nothing. Illya doesn’t know where to stand. It feels a bit odd to stand amongst the mourners at his own funeral when he’s not even…

Well, if he is dead this is certainly a strange way to go about it. He ends up leaning against the gravestone next to his, close enough that he can see the grief lining Napoleon and Gaby’s faces, hear the hitch of Napoleon’s breath when the priest first begins to talk.

Illya doesn’t listen to much of what he says. This part of the funeral is for everyone else who didn’t really know him, not for Napoleon and Gaby and Waverly. Gaby’s face has gone impassive, and she would almost look cold if it wasn’t for Illya knowing that she’s only doing this so she doesn’t start crying, and she doesn’t know how else to keep herself contained. He doubts it will last long, not with the death grip she has on Napoleon’s arm.

Napoleon, though… Napoleon looks vacant. He’s staring into the middle distance and probably not even hearing what is being said. Illya recognises the look, a little, some relation to that thousand-yard stare that Napoleon would sometimes get when things went wrong on a mission, when they were exposed once again to the worst that people could offer. Illya would wreck hotel rooms, in the early days before they worked out how to get a handle on his anger, and once they did that he would spend hours on the firing range until his arms ached. Napoleon would sit in his apartment and stare at the wall with a glass of whiskey in his hand that he sometimes wouldn’t even be present enough to drink.

Illya has seen a thousand soldiers stare into nothing. He doesn’t think he’s ever hated what he devoted his life to as much as he does now, if it makes Napoleon look like this.

He starts listening again when Waverly gets to his feet, unfolding a piece of paper from his pocket. “Thank you all for being here,” he says, that usual British politeness and reserved tone firmly held in place. “I would like to say a few words.”

Illya tunes him out for the most part, studying instead everyone’s faces. Oleg looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but here, though Illya isn’t sure if it’s because he hated him or he feels guilty for some reason. Markos just looks solemn, like he used to when they stood side by side at the many other funerals they attended over the years. The UNCLE agents there have expressions ranging from upset to possibly bored, which Illya can’t really blame them for. Funerals are depressing and they go on for far too long. Napoleon and Gaby look like they’re barely holding it together as Waverly speaks, and Illya looks away from them quickly before the expression on Napoleon’s face becomes seared into his memory.

Waverly is talking about his service, the many distinguished things he did during his career, how many times the end of the world was averted in only the few short years he had at UNCLE. Illya finds himself fighting the urge to roll his eyes. This isn’t what Waverly really thought of him, he’s sure of it. Funerals always make everyone more compassionate than they were when the person was alive, far more willing to overlook anything bad about them in favour of teary reminiscence about the good old times. He’s been to enough of them to know that.

“He was an exceptional agent,” Waverly is saying. “A dedicated partner and friend. Every single person in this agency, any person who ever knew him, knew that if he was there, there was no way he wouldn’t do every single thing in his power, and a few beyond that, to keep them safe. He was very good at chess, loved to sail, and detested the tea that I kept offering him during debriefings. He was much more than an agent, once you came to know him, and I am privileged that I was able to work with him, if only for a much shorter time than I would have liked.”

Waverly pauses, and Illya is surprised to see him clear his throat, take out a neatly folded handkerchief and dab at his eyes. “This game is a dangerous one, and sometimes we lose the best people in it far before they deserve to go,” he says, his voice thick. “For that, I am deeply sorry. But I would like to end, if I may, on a lighter note by which Illya might be remembered.”

He clears his throat again. “There was a mission in Switzerland, during which Illya and Solo were tasked with chasing down a corrupt politician and proving his corruption to get at the arms dealers he’d been financing. It was meant to be a mission spent mostly in hotel ballrooms, at charity galas and fundraisers. Instead, when I flew into Zurich to tidy up, I was greeted by a fuming Interpol agent, a hotel that was still smoking, and a certain politician who hadn’t yet been untied from the bonnet of a car, screaming his head off to anyone who would listen that he would confess to it all. Kuryakin and Solo were, predictably, arguing over precisely whose fault it was that another of Solo’s suits had been…sacrificed to the cause, was the way I believe it was put.”

Napoleon quirks a smile at that, as does Illya. It had been a fun mission.

“So I arrive on the scene. Interpol is nearly falling over themselves with indignation over us doing a better job in three days than they could do in two months, there’s a hotel slowly going from on fire to merely gently smoking in the background, and in the foreground are my two best agents shouting at each other over the state of a suit, both of them covered in ash and, for some bizarre reason that I still don’t quite know the answer to, river weeds. Before I can even say anything, before they know I am even there, Solo pulls off his suit jacket and thrusts it in Illya’s face. Illya, without even blinking, snatches the jacket from his hands and tosses it over his shoulder. It lands perfectly in the smouldering ruins of the hotel, but doesn’t yet catch alight. Solo looks like he is about to dive into the wreckage to get it back, but as Illya walks past him, he just so happens to stick out one foot and catch the charred beam wedged above the jacket. It falls down, and the no doubt very expensive suit jacket is lost for ever.” Waverly pauses, adjusting his glasses. “Illya’s response, when he sees me? Merely, ‘he had it coming’.”

Illya can’t help but grin at that, like most people in the audience. He remembers that mission. It had been particularly fun to watch Napoleon’s face when he threw that suit jacket into the hotel ruins. From the look on Napoleon’s face, the twist of his lips where a smile is battling with a sob and ceding ground with every second, he remembers it too.

Waverly clears his throat, and nods at the commander standing nearby. At his shouted order, the soldiers arrayed around the grave raise their rifles, and fire three shots off into the air. The sound resonates through Illya, all too familiar to him. He sees Napoleon start at the sound and stare at the soldiers as they slowly lower the Russian flag, sees Gaby grip his arm with a clenched jaw and red eyes from crying, sees Markos’ lips move in a murmured farewell.

The crowd slowly disperses once the funeral is over, walking slowly over the grass back to the waiting line of black cars. Most of them, Illya already knows, are going back to the wake being held at UNCLE, a chance for free food and muted conversation about him. He doubts Napoleon or Gaby will be going. They’ll probably go somewhere with more alcohol and fewer pitying looks that become cloying and stifling so easily.

Back in Moscow, they would do something similar after funerals. The ones who had been together in the spetsnaz even had a specific bar they would go to, where the servers knew to just keep the vodka coming and the civilians away from them, and nobody would question them when they turned up in the office the next day looking only a few steps away from death themselves.

There are only a few people still at the grave- _his_ grave, Illya supposes. Napoleon slowly gets to his feet and walks closer, hands in his pockets. Gaby joins him, slipping an arm through his.

“He would have hated this,” Napoleon murmurs. “All this extravagance. He would have laughed to have seen this.”

“Not quite, Cowboy,” Illya says softly from where he’s sat on a neighbouring headstone. “Not when you’re…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. _Upset_ doesn’t quite seem the right word for it, too superficial, too little for the aching grief constricting Napoleon’s throat. Illya can guess at it easily enough. There’s a similar grief wrapping around his chest that he’s been trying to ignore for some time now.

“At least there were Russian soldiers,” Gaby replies. “I think he would have tried to haunt us if we’d let American soldiers be at his own funeral.”

“I’m trying,” Illya says with a glare. “But the two of you are not very observant.”

Napoleon huffs the barest of laughs at that, but it breaks off into a strangled sob by the end. “Oh, Peril,” he murmurs. He looks over at Gaby. “It shouldn’t have been him, Gaby,” he says, choking on his own voice. “It shouldn’t have been him.”

Gaby leans into him, squeezing his arm, and Illya wants to do nothing more than walk over there and gather Napoleon tightly in his arm, murmur reassurances to him until everything is okay. “I know,” she just says.

“I had more time than I thought I would,” Illya says quietly, even though he knows they can’t hear him. “I had more with both of you than I thought I would ever have, and to have you at all was not something I ever thought I would get. It’s more than I ever deserved, having you.”

Napoleon and Gaby stand there for a few minutes longer, not saying anything, and Illya just watches them with a desperate hunger for both of them, to be able to touch them, gather Napoleon in his arms and kiss him. As a result, all three of them jump at the sound of someone clearing their throat. They turn to see Markos standing there.

“Chernyak,” Gaby says.

Markos nods. His face is drawn and pale, and he keeps glancing down at the headstone behind Napoleon and Gaby. Illya watches him carefully, leaning back against the headstone of some American soldier.

“Solo, Teller,” Markos says calmly, dipping his head.

Napoleon just looks weary. “What do you want?” he asks, and his voice is so tired that it makes Illya ache. “Why did you even come?”

Illya watches as Markos swallows, glancing away at the headstone again. “I wanted…well, I wanted a lot of things. But why I came? It’s too little too late, but I wanted…well, I wanted to tell you that I am so very sorry.”

“You didn’t have to come to the funeral to offer condolences,” Gaby says, her voice chilly. “You could have just written a letter.”

Markos huffs a brief laugh at that. “I’m not offering condolences,” he replies. “Well, I am, but that’s not what I’m apologising for.” He glances at the headstone again, jaw clenching, and then straightens and looks at both of them. “I should have been better to Illya. I should have done a lot of things that I never did to help him. And I am sorry that I will never be able to make that up to him.”

Illya stares at Markos in shock, and falls straight through the headstone beneath him. He hears Markos speaking again as he flails on the ground with a headstone almost cutting him in half, and pushes himself to his feet just in time to see Markos rub at his eyes, smearing the wetness on his cheeks.

“I was his friend,” he says in answer to whatever Napoleon or Gaby said. “There were a few of us who didn’t care much about his father’s name, or who learnt pretty quickly that Illya was worth much more than that. But there were many others who did care. And I never did anything when they threatened Illya with his father’s punishment, or held his family shame over his head to try and mould him into whatever they wanted.”

Markos shrugs, his lips twisting into a grimace. “We kept our heads down because we were afraid it would be us next, but that’s no excuse. And when Illya came to UNCLE a few years ago, and all that gossip went around the rumour mill, I said nothing again. They branded him a traitor for what he did, as you can probably well imagine, and though I knew…” He glances over his shoulder, to where Oleg is waiting by the cars.

“I knew it was bullshit,” Markos says frankly. “That Illya was doing what he thought was right, but again, I said nothing. I always said nothing. And for that, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to pick up so many of the pieces. I should have been better.”

“Yes,” Napoleon says frankly, his voice cold. “You should have.”

Markos’ lips twist again, and he looks down at Illya’s gravestone. “When he came here, his apartment was emptied, but I managed to get a few photos out of there beforehand, the ones I knew he really cared about. I heard…when I was told he’d died, when I finally managed to bully and bribe Oleg into letting me come to the funeral, I spoke to a few others from back then, tried to get some others.” He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out an envelope. “We couldn’t find many, I’m afraid. Sentimentality isn’t exactly encouraged amongst us. But there were a few, and I thought you should have them.”

Illya manages not to fall through the headstone as he pushes himself to his feet and looks over Napoleon’s shoulder as he takes the envelope and opens it. There are a few faded photos inside, and Napoleon’s hands start to tremble as he flicks through them.

Illya recognises them. There’s the one of him and his spetsnaz company out on the tundra, rifles in their hands and stupid grins on their faces. Someone had been photographing military regiments for the various propaganda that the State required, and one of the company had stolen one of his cameras, convincing their section commander to take a few photos. There’s a photo of him and his mother, a few years before she died, and another of him with both his parents when he was a child. There are a few more he can’t see, that tremble too much in Napoleon’s hands for him to make out where they were taken.

“Why are you giving these to me?” Napoleon asks. He hands them to Gaby, and Illya watches her throat bob as she looks through them.

Markos sticks his hands in his pockets. “Will you do a favour for me?” he asks. “If you can? When you are here- not all of the time, only when you remember, but would you leave some flowers here from me? Let him know that even if I wasn’t a very good friend to him at times…” He trails off and sighs. “Leave some flowers here from me. Tulips, if you can find them. They were-”

“His mother’s favourites, I know,” Napoleon says.

Illya’s breath stutters to a stop in his throat. “Napoleon,” he says. “Cowboy. I never told you that whilst I was alive. I never said anything until a week ago.” He circles around until he is standing in front of Napoleon. “Can you hear me? Can you hear what I’m saying?”

Napoleon stares straight through him at Markos. “I love you,” Illya says desperately. Napoleon doesn’t even blink, and the words fall flat and hollow.

“I can do that,” Napoleon says quietly. “If you will do me a favour.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a slim book that Illya recognises instantly. “It’s a collection of Pushkin’s poems,” Napoleon says, brushing a speck of dust from the cover. “Illya’s mother had it. It’s one of the few books he brought with him to New York.” He clears his throat, his voice suddenly hoarse. “We all know Illya wouldn’t have wanted this type of funeral,” Napoleon admits. “He would have hated all this pomp and circumstance.” He holds the book out with trembling hands. “Will you take this back to Moscow? Bury it where you think he would have liked to be buried, put something there to…to remember him by. Maybe when this whole stupid farce between our countries is over, I’ll be able to come over and see where you chose.”

Markos swallows, and Illya watches as he reaches out and takes the book, slipping it into his own jacket pocket. “I will,” he promises.

Markos swallows again. “You know, I heard a lot about you and Illya,” he says. “There are a lot of rumours that circled through after everything that happened in Italy.” He sighs, and then looks up at Napoleon. “I am glad that he was loved,” he says. “That he had the two of you. Thank you for that.”

There are tears starting to roll down Napoleon’s cheeks, but he holds out his hand. “It wasn’t hard to love him,” he gets out as Markos grabs his hand. “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you to your agency for not letting me be arrested the moment I touched US soil,” Markos replies, the barest hints of a wry smile curling his lips. “And thank you for letting me…say goodbye.”

Napoleon glances down at the headstone. “Take a few moments, if you want,” he says. Gaby looks reluctant to move away, but a look from Napoleon makes her give in. They wander a few metres away, and Markos stares at the headstone.

“I really don’t know what to say,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry, I guess? I miss you? But you and I, we’ve been in this game a long time. I suppose I knew that this was inevitable for one of us, one day.” He sighs. “Still, it shouldn’t have been you. You deserved better than that.”

He glances over his shoulder, and Illya follows his gaze to Napoleon and Gaby. “I’m glad you found something with him,” Markos says quietly. “You deserved all the love he could give you.” He sighs again, and pats the book in his pocket. “I’ll bury this in Moscow,” he says. “I’ll bury it next to your mother’s grave.”

“Thank you,” Illya says, though he knows Markos can’t hear him. He doesn’t move, just stays there and watches Markos walk away back to the car waiting for him, the UNCLE agents and Oleg standing around and watching. He doesn’t look away until the car leaves and disappears from sight. When he looks back, Napoleon is standing in front of the headstone.

“If you can hear me, Cowboy,” Illya says, and then he has to stop, to breathe through the lump that is settling in his throat, the grief that is scraping his skin raw from the inside. “If you can hear me,” he says again, watching as Napoleon folds to the ground and begins to cry silently, as Gaby watches from nearby with tears of her own rolling down her cheeks, body hunched in on itself like she couldn’t move even if she wanted to.

“I never deserved you,” Illya says. He sits down because he feels like his legs can’t hold him up anymore, like he’ll start sinking through the ground and end up six feet under where he should be, fill up the empty grave that’s underneath this headstone. “I never deserved any of this, was never good enough for any of it, but I had it anyway and it meant everything to me.” He looks over at Napoleon, at the line of his jaw, the curl in his hair, the little scar on his throat from when someone held a knife to it, all those things he used to map out in the middle of the night. “You meant everything to me,” he says, and his chest hurts even though he can’t feel any pain in his body anymore.

Napoleon is still crying, breaths coming in short gasps as he bows his head. “I’m not leaving,” Illya says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He puts out a hand above Napoleon’s trembling shoulder. He’s never been in the habit of wishing, never believed that it would do anything, but just this once, maybe just this once it will work. Maybe, if he believes in it hard enough, Napoleon will be there. Maybe just this once, if it’s what he wants beyond anything else, Napoleon will be solid beneath his hand. Maybe he can touch the man he loves, even if it’s just for one last time.

He lowers his hand and it passes straight through Napoleon’s shoulder.

**0-o-0-o-0**

He can’t be sure that Napoleon heard him. Maybe he had let slip about his mother liking tulips before, on one of those nights spent in safehouses, secrets traded between them like carefully hoarded ammunition. He clings to the idea anyway. It makes that knot in his chest ease just a little.

Napoleon is subdued following the funeral, spending hours wandering around the city in his mandated leave from UNCLE. Illya follows him into a few art galleries or museums, reminding Napoleon of all the things he’s taught him over the years. He makes up a few facts, waiting for a response that never comes. But after a while Napoleon just wanders around the city aimlessly, and Illya runs out of stories for this one-sided conversation within a few days.

Sometimes, Gaby joins them. When she does, Illya follows her back to her apartment watches as she reaches for the vodka bottle. He finds himself talking to her as he watches her work, telling her stories of his time in the spetsnaz and the training he had in demolitions and explosives, how on one training expedition when they’d all been seriously bored, they’d worked out the most efficient way to level a typical skyscraper with the minimal amount of explosives. It had involved multiple sketches and diagrams, scrawled on notepads and drawn with sticks in the dirt of the forest floor which were hastily scrubbed out as soon as a superior came over.

Illya is surprised how easily he tells these stories to her and Napoleon. He’d used to hoard these stories away, share them only when he couldn’t hold onto them anymore. He’d used to keep them firmly separate from his life with Napoleon and UNCLE, determined to consign the past to the past.

It all seems a little pointless, now. Illya watches Napoleon grieve, watches him stare at the city with a blank gaze, and realises that whatever secrets he thought he was protecting Napoleon from, Napoleon wouldn’t have cared. Napoleon would have loved him anyway.

When Napoleon’s screams make him lose focus and send him falling through the bed for the fourth time in a week, Illya realises that he wasn’t the only one with a past he’d rather not remember.

He pushes his way out of the bed to see Napoleon gasping for breath. “It’s okay, Cowboy,” Illya says, concentrating hard on the bed being solid until he can sit on it again. “It was just a dream.”

Napoleon, of course, doesn’t hear him. He sits up in bed, covers pooling around his waist, and heaves for breath. Illya watches as he slowly calms himself down, breaths coming more even and steady. One of them hitches, and Napoleon curses, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.

“Christ,” he mutters. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“It was just a dream,” Illya says. “I’m still here, Cowboy. I’m right here.”

“Fuck,” Napoleon says, his voice unbearably weary. He pushes the covers back and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, switching on the bedside lamp, but he doesn’t seem to be able to make it any further. Illya twists on the bed, hovering as close as he can get to Napoleon without Napoleon being able to accidentally slip through him. Seeing that still makes him feel sick to his stomach.

Illya watches as Napoleon pulls open the drawer of his bedside table, and then all his thoughts come screaming to a halt. A skittering rush of adrenaline and fear makes him surge to his feet in panic. The lamp beside him flickers.

He reaches out. His hands pass straight through.

All of the helplessness he’s felt over the years, all the times he’s stared down the barrel of a gun, none of it compares to the way everything shrinks around him to a single point of terror at the sight of the pistol in Napoleon’s lap.

“Cowboy,” Illya says steadily, his voice a bald lie, a measured tone covering up the cries reverberating through his chest. “Napoleon. Napoleon, please, just listen to me. If you can hear anything that I can say, please, just listen to me.”

He kneels down in front of Napoleon, hands hovering over the pistol like he can shield it from Napoleon’s view.

“I don’t know what will happen to you if you do this,” Illya says, trying to catch Napoleon’s gaze, ducking his head to try and get a glimpse of his eyes. “Napoleon. I don’t know why I’m still here, I don’t know how this happened. You won’t get stuck here like me. You don’t deserve a punishment like this. I do, I deserve this, but you are better than this and you deserve better.”

Illya stares at Napoleon’s face, and the shreds of self-control that he’d clung to throughout all of this fray and fall away.

“ _Napoleon_ ,” he pleads. “Put the gun away. Just put the gun away. It will feel a little better in the morning, and then a little better the next day, and one day you’ll be able to live without me and that’s _fine_ , because you’ll be alive to see it.” His hands hover mere inches above Napoleon’s, and he’s terrified to try and close the gap.

“Put the gun away,” Illya pleads. “Just put it away.”

Napoleon’s hands pass straight through Illya’s as he fiddles with the holster clip. Illya’s world narrows even further.

“Don’t do this,” he begs, hands passing straight through Napoleon as he reaches for him. “Cowboy, please, you can’t do this. _Napoleon_!”

Suddenly the lamp bulb explodes in a shower of glass, sparks flickering across the table. Napoleon jumps backwards, narrowly avoiding the glass fragments that scatter across the bed, and the gun slides from his lap to hit the floor with a dull thud.

Illya stares at the ruins of the lamp, well aware that his mouth has fallen open in shock.

Napoleon is staring at it too, his face deathly pale in the dim light left from the streetlights outside. Without any warning he jolts to his feet, and Illya falls back to avoid Napoleon passing straight through him as he stumbles into the bathroom, one hand clutching his mouth. Illya winces at the sound of Napoleon’s knees hitting the tiled floor as he retches into the toilet.

Illya picks himself up off the floor to follow him, the sudden drop of adrenaline leaving an empty space that weighs his bones down. He has to concentrate not to sink into the floor as he slumps in the bathroom, watching Napoleon realise just what he’d been contemplating.

“Fuck,” Napoleon mutters, leaning against the porcelain. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I don’t blame you, Cowboy,” Illya says quietly. With some effort, he props himself up against the bathtub and stays there. “I don’t… it is easier for us to think of this, sometimes. This life is going to kill all of us eventually; it already got to me. When you’re like this, what does it matter whose hand ends up on the trigger in the end?”

Napoleon leans back, slumping against the cupboard under the sink, and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fuck,” he mutters, looking out into the bedroom and the remains of the lamp there.

“Guess I got you worried there, Illya?” He laughs, a hollow sound. “Christ, I’m going mad if I think you’re haunting me. Suppose you would do much more destructive things. Blowing up a lamp is tame for your standards.” He laughs, and it turns into an ugly sound that he seems to just manage to keep behind his lips.

Illya watches as Napoleon hauls himself to his feet and starts cleaning up the shattered glass in the bedroom. “I wouldn’t have done anything,” he says as he sweeps shards off the bedside table, voice firmly back in place. “I wasn’t…things were all over the place as soon as I woke up, and before I knew it I had the pistol in my hands, but I wasn’t going to do anything with it.” He pauses, staring at the gun, still in its holster, lying on the floor. Napoleon bends down to pick it up, groaning as he does.

Illya can’t help the brief worry that flares through him, and the filament of the lamp flickers and sparks.

Napoleon curses, turning it off at the wall and pulling it away from the bed, blowing on it as if that will stop a bulb filament from being hot. “Dammit,” he mutters. “I liked that lamp. Though I suppose you always did object to my sense of interior furnishing.”

He sits down heavily on the edge of the bed, picking away a few spare pieces of glass. “I’m sorry, Peril,” he murmurs. “I guess if you could really see me now you’d be rolling your eyes at how poorly I’m handling this. _Not the Russian way_ , you’d say.” Napoleon’s breath hitches, and he breathes out in a long sigh. “Not the Russian way at all.”

Illya doesn’t know how to reply, so he sits on the floor at Napoleon’s feet and says nothing.

Napoleon stares at a spot on the carpet just to the left of him. “The worst feeling?” he murmurs. “The worst thing, the thing that keeps getting stuck in my head, over and over again?” He huffs a bitter laugh. “There’s absolutely nothing I can do. I’ve spent a good portion of my life running around the world, serving my country’s nationalism or actually trying to do some good but always out there, in the midst of everything and fixing whatever I could. And now there’s something that matters, that really matters, and there’s nothing I can do. There’s no outlet for all this…this grief, and rage, nothing I can do to fix it or make it go away. It just…stays.”

At that, Illya watches as Napoleon falls silent. “Cowboy,” he says eventually, but no words follow. He doesn’t know what to say to that, beyond that he knows the feeling of sheer helplessness in the face of something that is so impossible to fix that there isn’t even anywhere to start, knows what it is like to stare that down and come to the uncomfortable realisation that there is no way to fix what has gone wrong. He moved on by being broken up, thrown to the Armed Forces, and rebuilt into a soldier.

“It wasn’t exactly the healthiest way of coping,” Illya mutters. “Don’t try it, Cowboy. If you didn’t get on with American army, you would last about two days with mine. They would chew you up and eat you for breakfast.”

Predictably, Napoleon says nothing. “I love you,” Illya says, but the words feel empty without someone else there to hear them. The entire premise of love all depends on another person. Lose that, and it’s useless.

“I never believed I would deserve anything like you gave me,” Illya says, trying again. “I thought I had enough for all the bad things I’ve done. I’ve killed more people than I can count. I’ve been cruel with it, sometimes. I think I even enjoyed it, when it was winning a struggle that would have ended with one of us dead. But you know all of this, even if I never got around to telling you. And you somehow loved me anyway.”

These words are easier to say, and Illya finds the secrets he’s kept for years slowly spilling from his tongue, like honey finally overflowing from a hive. He should have told Napoleon whilst he still could. This is far too little and far too late, and far too selfish, to speak this when nobody else can hear him, but it is something.

He’s surprised at how easily these words fall from his lips. There’s something in his voice that he didn’t really mean to put there but has found its way in there anyway, something he might call love but for a lingering distaste. Love is too simplistic, for people who haven’t lived the lives that he and Napoleon have had.

Napoleon has fallen asleep by the time that Illya’s words dry up. His throat feels fine, which is the weirdest feeling, because he knows that he should be hoarse by now. He doesn’t feel stiff when he gets to his feet either, the aches of his body gone. It still catches him by surprise, even weeks after.

Napoleon is curled up under the covers, face half pushed into the pillow, and even with everything, Illya can’t help but smile a little at the sight.

“Sleep well, Cowboy,” he says softly. His hand hovers over Napoleon’s shoulder, but he doesn’t reach out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the support for this fic and for my laptop problems.
> 
> I hope I didn't break you too much with this chapter, but I am prepared for shouting in the comments (honestly I sort of love it, it's fuel for writers like me). Again, you can also blame somedrunkpirate for making the final scene 1000% more angsty.
> 
> If you've read somedrunkpirate's fic [Drowning Deep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11376558/chapters/25470960), a TMFU pacific rim AU that is heartbreaking and fulfilling and incredible, then you might want to know that they are working on a sequel! As part of NaNoWriMo, they are trying to write about 500 words of it every day, and if you head over to their Tumblr [here](https://somedrunkpirate.tumblr.com), they're posting teasers and would love some support!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now have my laptop back! I finally managed to get it to the store to find out what was wrong, and it turns out that it isn't busted- a cable from the hard drive had shorted, meaning the laptop couldn't find the hard drive and was freaking out like a toddler who hadn't yet learnt what object permanence was. So everything is back to normal now, thank you all so much for your patience and support.
> 
> Because last chapter was shorter, and because of the way I have written this story, this is going to be the second to last chapter, and not the last like I originally intended. The end of this chapter was a good place for me to cut it.
> 
> I say that... it's a good place for me. You might not agree- I'm bracing myself for screaming in the comments (who am I kidding though, I love it when I make you all mad with my angst).

Napoleon goes back to UNCLE a week later. Illya follows. He has nothing else to do, and maybe wandering around UNCLE will at least be a little more interesting than wandering around the apartment. Even if Napoleon is stuck on desk duty for a few weeks at least.

Waverly sits Napoleon and Gaby down almost as soon as they walk through the doors. “The investigation into Kuryakin’s death is still ongoing,” he tells them. “Neither of you are allowed to join them. You are not even allowed to know the agents that are working on the case, though I don’t doubt you will work it out eventually. I won’t have either of you impeding the progress of the case or getting yourselves hurt.”

“Are we allowed to know the progress of the case?” Gaby asks, her voice chilly. “Or is that too much?”

Waverly gives her a look over the top of his glasses that makes Illya snort, despite himself. “This is the best thing for the two of you,” he says firmly. “You will get periodic updates, as you have been since the explosion, and you will both be the first to know if there is further progress. But I will not have you endangering yourselves or anyone else by trying to avenge Kuryakin. I have lost good agents to reckless impulses brought on by grief before. I will not lose the two of you.”

Gaby looks rebellious, but eventually subsides. Napoleon is harder to read, his face carefully kept blank, but Illya can see in the tightening of his jaw and the way his eyes flicker to Waverly’s cabinet that he isn’t fully on board with the idea.

The rest of the debrief is little more than the usual words, and Illya snoops around Waverly’s office whilst he talks. He feels a brief pang of guilt about doing so, but only brief. He’s dead. It’s not like anything he finds out will make any difference. He watches Napoleon and Gaby leave over Waverly’s shoulder.

“You’re going to have a hard time keeping him in line,” he says as Waverly reaches for a folder on the desk. “He’s not…he might be able to hide it well, but he isn’t okay. You’re going to have to keep an eye on him.”

Waverly reaches for his intercom. “Deena, come in here for a moment,” he says. He barely lets go of the button before his secretary is coming through the door, her heels muted on the carpet. “Will you tell the rest of the secretaries to keep an eye out on Solo and Teller?” Waverly asks. “Be discreet, but make sure the word gets around.”

“They won’t take kindly to being coddled, Sir,” Deena says. “I think Teller has the engineers looking out for her, though you might want to get security to start looking for more inventive places for their vodka stash. I believe it’s getting quite substantial.”

“They’re moving it around between the hollowed-out engine of a Ford Mustang that’s beyond repair, a false drawer of a tool box and the ceiling,” Illya says, looking up from reading the report on Waverly’s desk. “Also, the finances in this don’t add up. This company here is likely a shell company, though they’ve been very clever about it.”

“And Solo?” Waverly asks Deena. “He definitely won’t take kindly to obvious display of worry.”

“We’ll all keep an eye out, Sir, and I’ll spread the word around,” she replies. “We’ll make sure people keep him company for most of the day, stop him getting cooped up in that office with all those memories in it. There’s always plenty of work around here that we can give him to keep him busy as well.”

“See to it,” Waverly says. “And get this typed up, please.”

Taking the report from him, Deena shuts the door behind her. “Thank you,” Illya says quietly. “Make sure he doesn’t do something stupid.”

He leaves, walking straight through the door without a second thought. It’s become easy, just walking at a door or a wall and being so sure that he’ll end up on the other side that he passes through. There have been a few missteps, where he tried to walk through a thick outer wall and got stuck halfway through, but it’s surprisingly easy now that he has the hang of it.

Napoleon is in their- _his_ office, staring at the desk. Someone has been in and cleared out most of the traces he’d left behind; the trinkets on his desk, the reports he’d been working on that morning. There’s a box of things left on the floor next to his desk. There isn’t much in it.

Illya had never quite gotten used to the idea of spending money on himself, or to having the types of trinkets and miscellaneous things that Napoleon always has cluttering his desk and his mantelpiece at home. It was one of the many things that had carried over from Moscow and the Kremlin, though maybe one of the few things Illya actually thinks is still right. It’s pointless having useless items cluttering up the place and getting in the way.

Napoleon, of course, always insisted that buying useless trinkets is the best way to spend a vacation when not being shot at or chased after. It’s one of the many things that will make Illya never convert to capitalism, even with all of Napoleon’s attempts over the past few years.

Napoleon stares at the box of things for a long moment, and then breathes out heavily. He pulls a report towards him from the stack on his desk, flipping it open. The scratch of pen across paper is the only sound in the office for a long while.

0-o-0-o-0

“Have you heard about Martinez?”

“Yeah, him and that tech on the fourth floor, right? Wonder how that’s going to work out.”

“Well, I heard that they’ve been coming into work together for the past few days. Think it’s more of a fling than something serious, though. Relationships don’t work out here. We work too close together to have normal relationships with people.”

“Solo and Kuryakin managed it.”

“That could not have been called a normal relationship in any way, even if they seemed happy. At least…”

“Yeah, I know. How’s Solo doing? I haven’t seen him around much, but then I was in Mexico for the past week.”

“He’s coping, I think. Waverly has him and Teller on desk duty, though Teller is spending most of her time in the workshops with the engineers. Solo spends a lot of time in his office, but he gets a bit morose if he’s in there for too long, so feel free to stop by and ask for his opinion on something. I think some of the techs are getting him to test their new prototypes as well, if only to get him doing something other than reading reports.”

“I still can’t believe…”

“Yeah, I know. I thought Kuryakin would have outlived us all.”

Illya turns away, unable to listen to much more of the agents’ conversation as they fix their coffee. This has become his life now. Go into UNCLE headquarters with Napoleon in the morning, watch him work for a while and then wander around the halls of UNCLE, reading reports over people’s shoulders or listening to their conversations. Some part of him still feels a little guilty over the invasion of privacy. If he was in their place, he’s sure he wouldn’t have liked a ghost commenting on their shoddy grammar over his shoulder. But boredom has won out, and it’s not like he can tell anyone else the secrets he overhears, or that they’re ever going to know he was there.

He wanders through the hallways, occasionally cutting corners by directly walking through walls and various offices. He’s not really paying attention, thinking about whether to try and mess with the lights in the workshops, where the engineers and Gaby are more likely to notice something, and whether it’s even worth it, as he’s only been able to make lights flicker or a lamp explode twice. As such, it takes him a few seconds to realise the room that he’s walked into is dark, small, and filled with breathy moans that wouldn’t be out of place in some terrible romantic comedy.

There are two people that Illya doesn’t quite recognise wrapped around each other in the supply closet, various pieces of clothing strewn around the place. Illya stumbles backwards, trying desperately to un-see what he’s just seen, and falls straight through the back wall of the closet. He lands, and opens his eyes to see the guts of a server system, judging by all the wires now poking through him.

It takes a few moments for him to work out how to get up, during which he has to listen to the couple trying their best to provide a new background noise to UNCLE, instead of the usual sound of harried agents demanding coffee. He’s a little surprised. Him and Napoleon never resorted to supply closets.

Not that their office desk wasn’t occasionally put to good use, though.

 “This is a spy agency,” he complains as he gets to his feet. “Don’t you have jobs to do?”

Predictably, the couple can’t hear him. Illya rolls his eyes and walks away, making sure not to go back through that supply closet.

He heads down to the workshops instead, and spends a few hours watching them work. Gaby is there as well, her own table cluttered with half-finished projects and the guts of a car engine. Illya, after concentrating hard, manages to sit on the edge of the table, though when he tries to pick up a screwdriver his hand passes straight through it. “How are you doing, chop shop girl?” he asks.

Gaby has her head half buried in the guts of the car engine. “This thing is a mess,” she gripes, hand blindly feeling for something on the table. It passes straight through his leg as she grabs hold of some tool that Illya doesn’t recognise. “Where has it been, the Sahara?”

“Gobi Desert, I believe,” Illya says. He remembers reading a report on someone’s desk for that mission, tracking down a fledgling terrorist group hiding out on the edge of the desert. It had sounded like hell. He’s been to the Gobi Desert once, on a mission with the KGB, and though the sound of the sand singing in the wind had been hauntingly beautiful, the sand constantly being whipped into his face and the grit of it getting everywhere had not.

Gaby mutters something about someone not using the proper oil for greasing the engine. “People are useless,” she says with a huff, pulling her head out of the engine and wiping her hands down. “Useless and horrible.”

“I’m well aware,” Illya says dryly.

He looks up as an engineer wanders over, handing Gaby a bottle of water. “How’s it going?” she asks.

“What, the engine?” Gaby asks, taking a swig and setting it down. “It’s a mess, but I’ll be able to fix it by tomorrow if we have the right parts.”

The engineer nods. “I don’t doubt,” she replies. “Still, wasn’t quite what I was asking.”

Gaby stares at the cloth in her hands, twisting it around her fingers. “I want to be out there, finding the bastards who did this,” she says quietly, that steel Illya saw almost as soon as he met her coming to the surface in her voice. “I want to make them pay for what they took from me. I want to make sure they never do it to anyone else.” She glances up at the other engineer, fire in her face. “I want to find the bastards and make them pay for what they have done, make them hurt like they’ve hurt me.”

After a long moment, she breathes out, shaking her head. “Is this how all the other victims feel?” she asks, her voice quietening. “Not the ones who died of course, but there’s always collateral that survive. Family, friends, that sort of thing. I’d never really thought about them before.” She winds the cloth around one of her fingers. “I’ve never really been one of them before. Is this how they all feel?”

“Probably,” the engineer says with a shrug. She takes a swig of water from her own bottle. “It depends on the person, I suppose. We have it much worse, because we know exactly what some people are capable of and what could have been done to prevent it.” She sighs, twisting the cap back onto the bottle. “It hurts to lose someone. I know. But if you think about that too much, we won’t be able to do our jobs at all, and then a lot more people will get hurt.”

“I know, I know,” Gaby mutters. “Believe me, I’m well aware of the realities of this job.” She sets the rag down, picking up a screwdriver and flipping it over in her hands so she can stab savagely at the engine. “It just…it just sucks.”

“Eloquent as always,” Illya comments. “But yes, this does…suck.”

“It does,” the engineer says. “And we’re sorry for it, but you know that already.” She puts her water bottle down. “Can you have a look at the laser that Bell is trying to make work? He can’t get the mechanism working, and I know you had something similar that you’d found in Cairo.”

“That had exploded after three uses because it overheated, but sure, I can have a look,” Gaby says. She grabs a few tools and follows the other engineer.

Illya stays sat on the table. There’s an edge to Gaby that he doesn’t think he’s seen before, one that he put there by dying. There might have been something similar to her right after Berlin and Rome, but then all three of them had been full of sharp edges and broken pieces, working out how to fit together without combusting. Illya can barely remember Istanbul beyond the heat, the sun and the way he’d fought with Napoleon the entire time.

He hates seeing that edge, as much as he hates the thousand-yard stare that Napoleon can get. Illya knew, has always known, that Gaby would end up being better than both him and Napoleon could ever be. There was an optimism in her that the KGB and CIA had long since burned out of him and Napoleon, if they’d ever really had it to begin with. Now that edge seems to smother it, dampen it down and replace it with cynicism.

“Look after her,” he tells Waverly one afternoon, after watching Gaby fall asleep at her workshop table. “She could be the best of us.”

Waverly shuffles through some files on his desk, pulling out another report. “She hasn’t lost it, yet, whatever this thing is that gets taken from us by doing this job,” Illya tells him. Innocence or naivete, on a bad day, but on a good day an unerring optimism that Illya sometimes wishes he could remember. “But she will lose it, if you don’t take care of her now. She’ll still be a good agent, probably someone the KGB would have loved to have. But she could be the best of us.”

Waverly just clears his throat, and reaches for his ever-present cup of tea.

0-o-0-o-0

“Christ, I’m really fed up of this.”

Illya glances up from where he’s trying to see if he can move the lamp. It’s become more of a game than anything else now, after weeks of not being able to do more than make a lamp explode when terrified. Napoleon has his head in his hands, hunched over his desk. As Illya watches, a drop falls from the bridge of his nose onto the report below him.

Napoleon sniffs, and wipes at his nose with the back of his hand. “Fucking hell,” he mutters. He leans back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling.

“God, I wish you were here,” he says eventually. “You would know exactly what to say. But then that’s the whole problem, isn’t it? You’re not here.”

“I don’t know exactly what to say,” Illya replies. “You’re the one with the silver tongue, not me. You always talked us out of the bad situations. I would just shoot my way out instead. Or blow something up.”

Napoleon is quiet for a long moment, running a hand over his face. “Ugh,” he mutters eventually. He reaches into his pocket, and then the other. “Where’s a damn handkerchief when you need one?” he asks. He breathes out, running a hand over his face. “Fuck it,” he mutters, and gets up from his desk chair with a groan.

There’s a false bottom to one of the drawers in the filing cabinet. It’s been there since before they came to UNCLE, handed down to them from the agents who had been in this office before them. Everyone has a vice, and everyone needs somewhere to stash it.

Napoleon sighs as he pulls a bottle out of the drawer. “I know, I know,” he mutters as he grabs a glass from the desk, draining it of the last few drops of water.  “Drinking on the job is a terrible idea, it’s the start of a slippery slope, Gaby will never let me hear the end of it. I know.” He turns the bottle over in his hand, studying the label. “But this is a really good scotch.”

“You don’t drink on the job, Cowboy,” Illya says. He knows that bottle. Napoleon had brought it back from a mission in Scotland. Occasionally they had both had a few fingers after work, off the clock but not quite ready to go home, but Illya knows Napoleon has never touched it whilst he’s meant to be working.

He was sure that was a line Napoleon wouldn’t ever cross.

“A few fingers won’t hurt,” Napoleon tells himself as he uncorks the bottle and pours some out. “Not when I’m stuck on this damn desk duty. And if I need to, experience has damn well proven that I can fire a gun perfectly well with a few drinks in me. I would be a useless spy if I couldn’t do that.”

“Don’t drink it, Cowboy,” Illya says. “Don’t. You know where this goes.”

Napoleon stares at the glass, swirling the scotch around. “Fuck it,” he says, and he drinks half of it in one go.

Illya stares at him. “Cowboy,” he says incredulously. “ _Napoleon_.”

Napoleon heaves a sigh, slumping into his desk chair. “Christ, if you could see me now,” he murmurs. He swills the remainder of the scotch around the bottom of the glass. “You’d be shouting at me, that’s for sure.”

“I would take that glass out of your hand and pour all that scotch down the sink,” Illya snaps. “Are you really this stupid, Cowboy, to drink on the job? You know where that leads. I know you do.”

“I’m not going to turn into Sanders or one of his lackeys,” Napoleon mutters, taking another sip. “If that happens, someone should just shoot me and be done with it.” He stares at the scotch. “Sorry, Peril. I’m not doing much to _live up to your legacy_ , as Gaby put it the last time she found me drunk on my sofa.”

“That’s…that isn’t the point,” Illya tells him. “I don’t care about my legacy or however Gaby put it. I care about you not killing yourself because you’re too drunk to think.”

He’s seen this before. He’s watched agents start drinking and he’s watched them not stop until it killed them. The job always got them before the alcohol itself had the chance to destroy their livers, but it still killed them.

“I won’t watch you do the same thing to yourself,” he tells Napoleon. “I won’t. I’ll find some way to stop you.”

Napoleon, of course, can’t hear him. He drains his glass and clears his throat, glancing over at the cabinet. A moment later and Illya watches as he shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re not okay, Cowboy,” Illya says. “You need to talk to someone.”

Napoleon picks up the empty glass and rolls it around in his hand. “Tasted better when you weren’t dead, Peril,” he says. “Tasted a hell of a lot better.” He sets it down with a crack. “You’re an utter bastard. You know that, right? Dying and leaving me behind in this damn mess, making me sit at your graveside and listen to Waverly talk about you in the past tense like that.” He rubs a hand over his face. “You weren’t meant to leave me behind, Peril.”

“I didn’t exactly plan to,” Illya replies. He leans against the edge of Napoleon’s desk. “I didn’t want to leave you behind. I wanted…well, I wanted you. I wanted this stupid posturing between our countries to end so that I could show you Moscow. I wanted to wake up to you making coffee in the morning with bedhead and wrinkled pyjamas, go to sleep next to you in bed.”

He reaches down for the desk, pressing his hand down. He can almost imagine the smooth texture of the wood, the slip of the varnish underneath his fingertips. “Doesn’t matter now,” he says. “But I wanted to live for you, Napoleon. You should know that.” He taps his fingers against the desk. They don’t make a sound, and a rueful smile just about curls his lips. “Even if you can’t really hear anything I’m saying.”

0-o-0-o-0

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“I’ll be fine, Gaby,” Napoleon says. He picks up a magazine and stuffs it into the webbing around his hips. “It’s a milk run, and you’ll be outside with a tac team anyway.”

“I don’t see why we just can’t come in with you,” Gaby says, crossing her arms and glaring at him. Illya rolls his eyes from where he’s propped up against one of the lockers.

“For the many reasons Waverly explained,” he tells her. “This actually is a milk run, chop shop girl.” He’s read all the files over Waverly’s shoulder, and as far as he can tell it really is an easy job. Napoleon breaks in undetected, photographs the file in a locked drawer, and gets back out. Gaby and the tac team are only really there in case the arms dealer arrives back early and someone raises the alarm.

“An entire tac team doesn’t exactly scream stealthy,” Napoleon tells Gaby with a wry smile. “They’ll tread mud everywhere. It’s much easier to get in myself, and I think I can just about work the camera.”

“Only if you remember it,” Gaby replies, holding it out to him. “Please be careful with it, it’s a prototype.”

They drive out of the base, leaving Toronto behind and quickly heading into the middle of nowhere. Illya, sat on the floor of the truck with someone’s legs passing through his torso, concentrates until he’s certain he won’t fall through and get left behind. It’s not as hard as sitting on the plane that they took to get to Toronto from New York. He spent most of the journey wondering if he’d survive if he fell through the floor of the plane at ten thousand feet.

“We’re at the edge of the compound,” the driver announces some time later. “Solo, you’re up.”

Illya lets himself fall through the bottom of the truck as he stands, and walks out through the side. He’s already looking down at the compound when Napoleon gets out, working out what would be the best approach. The compound down below them in the valley is lit up with security lights, but they’re far enough out that they won’t have been noticed.

“We’ll give you an hour to get down there, get in and find the documents,” someone tells Napoleon as he goes over his equipment, fingers running over his lockpicks. “Comms check.”

Napoleon touches his ear. “Check,” he says. “If the intel is right, I’ll head round to the right and get in through the service doors. If there really is minimal staff presence, then it shouldn’t take me more than half an hour to find the documents.” He double-checks the safety on the pistol at his hip. “I’ll radio in once I’m inside.”

Illya follows him down the valley and towards the compound. It’s a much smoother descent for him; he can’t trip over any of the roots, or have to find alternative paths when there are boulders or a thick tangle of undergrowth in the way. Napoleon stumbles over a tree root, cursing beneath his breath, and Illya nearly reaches out to steady him before he remembers.

Illya has studied the maps of the compound over various shoulders ever since they first started planning this, and he draws ahead of Napoleon eventually. There are only a few guards patrolling, as intel suggested, and Illya fades through the wall to find even fewer people on the inside.

“There’s two guards to your left, Cowboy,” he says. Napoleon waits in the shadows of the corner until they walk past, not even glancing in his direction.

Fifteen minutes in, dodging the occasional guard and a couple of cleaners, Napoleon abruptly pauses. “This isn’t right,” he breathes. “There shouldn’t be an additional wing here. And that corridor is wrong.” He follows one of them, but he’s moving slower now, one hand resting on the pistol at his hip. “This place is a maze,” he mutters, tapping his earpiece. “And our blueprints were wrong. Are you getting this, Gaby?”

Illya heads past him, fading through one wall and into what looks like a server room. Another wall, and there’s an empty conference room. A few more, and he’s standing behind rows of desks. He can see people with their backs towards him, some bowed and focused on their computers whilst others look up at the central screen ahead of them. A camera feed flickers between shots of hallways and empty rooms.

Illya’s breath catches when he sees Napoleon, his grainy figure crouched in front of a desk. “There he is,” someone says from one of the desks, zooming in on him. “Shall I signal the team to go in now?”

“No, no,” someone else says, wandering to the front of the room and studying the screen. “Leave him for a little bit. Let him get closer to the exit.”

Illya swallows, a heavy weight sinking into his chest. He turns and runs, going straight through the walls. Somehow he doesn’t get lost, doesn’t take a wrong turning in amongst the endless grey rooms that sprawl out inside this compound. Napoleon is a fixed point.

“It’s a trap,” he says as soon as he fades through the wall. “Cowboy, it’s a trap. They know you’re here. You have to get out now.”

Napoleon straightens up from the desk, tucking the documents away again and pocketing the camera. “All done,” he murmurs, tapping his earpiece. “On my way out now.”

“ _Napoleon_ ,” Illya says sharply. He stands right in front of him. “It is a trap. They are coming for you.”

Napoleon walks right through him on his way to the door.

Illya follows him. He doesn’t run ahead, not when there is nothing he could do even if he could find where they were lying in wait. He sticks close to Napoleon. “It’s a trap,” he says again. “For the love of God, Napoleon, if you can hear anything I ever say, listen to me now. They know you are here. They are waiting for you. You are going to walk straight into a trap.”

Napoleon turns down another corridor. His hand comes to rest on his pistol.

“ _Napoleon!_ ” Illya shouts.

The lights above Napoleon’s head flicker and dim for a moment. Napoleon slows, glancing up at them. A frown creases his forehead, and his hand tightens on his pistol, pulling it out of the holster a few inches. “This isn’t right,” he breathes. “Gaby. Can anyone hear me? Something isn’t right.”

He’s moving closer to the exit with every step, and with every step Illya can feel his heart hammering in his chest, something wrapping around his throat and squeezing the breath from him. “It’s a trap,” he says again. He can’t stop himself. “Cowboy. They’re waiting for you.”

Napoleon glances around a corner and is met with a spray of bullets. He launches himself back behind the wall, pistol instantly in his hand. “Fuck!” he spits, finger curling around the trigger. Bullets bite into the wall by his head, chunks of plaster spinning off across the floor. The retort echoes through the compound, and then abruptly falls silent.

“His rifle has jammed,” Illya says. “Now, Napoleon, you have to move now.”

In one fluid movement, Napoleon steps out from behind the wall, firing three shots centre mass. The man at the end of the hall falls down, rifle clattering from his grasp and spinning across the floor. Napoleon starts running, scooping the rifle up without breaking stride. “Gaby,” he snaps, tapping at his earpiece. “Is anyone receiving me? This is a trap, repeat, this is a trap. I need immediate backup.”

There are two more men waiting around the next corner, and Napoleon only just manages to duck in time as the bullets spray plaster above his head. He fires back, the sound of the rifle deafening in the narrow corridors, and ducks behind a wall. “Ammo,” he mutters. “Why the fuck is there never enough ammo?”

Illya reaches for one of the men’s rifles, but his hand passes straight through it. There’s a spiralling anger and rage clawing its way up his chest, pushed on by the rising fear threatening to steal his breath. The lights flicker again, and then one suddenly explodes above their heads, showering them with sparks. The men reel back, briefly blinded.

Napoleon takes his chance. The retort of his rifle echoes once, then twice. Both men drop to the floor. “Their ammunition, Cowboy,” Illya says, but Napoleon is already rushing forwards, crouching to dig through their pockets. He pulls out two magazines before there’s the sound of more footsteps from up ahead.

“Does anyone copy?” Napoleon asks, ducking back into an alcove as he reloads. “Gaby? I need immediate backup, repeat, immediate backup. This was a trap.”

There’s nothing. Napoleon curses.

“You should get out, Cowboy,” Illya says. “You should run.” He turns his head away from Napoleon, under the pretence of scanning the corridor ahead that is thin even to himself. He doesn’t think he can bear to see the blank-slate of Napoleon’s face as he doesn’t hear him.

Napoleon is still crouched in the alcove. He ducks his head as Illya watches, unable to do anything at all. “Sorry, Peril,” he mutters.

“Cowboy,” Illya says. “What do you mean by that.” He watches as Napoleon gets to his feet, finger curling over the trigger.

Napoleon heaves a breath, eyes darting to the corridor where the sound of footsteps and shouted commands are growing loud. “Can anyone hear me?” he asks one more time.

There’s no response. He tears the earpiece out and lets it clatter onto the floor. The sound is lost in amongst the men getting into position just a few metres away.

“Agent!” someone shouts. “Put down your weapon and get on your knees.”

“So you can shoot me easier?” Napoleon calls back. He draws in another breath, steadying himself against the wall. “Thanks very much, but I think I’ll pass.”

“You are outnumbered and unprepared,” comes the answer. “This will not end well for you.”

“You’re just not thinking positively enough,” Napoleon replies. He tightens his grip on his rifle. “You could just let me go and then it won’t end badly for anyone.”

“I don’t think so, agent,” the man tells him. “If you do not comply, then we will be forced to neutralise you.”

“Go ahead and try,” Napoleon calls back.

They fall silent. Illya steps forwards to see one of them pulling something from his belt. “Armed,” he says in a murmur. “Ready.”

“Go,” someone else says, and Illya recognises the shape in his hand a second before he throws it.

“Flash-bang!” he shouts, already twisting for Napoleon. He can’t help himself, can’t help wanting to warn him, even though he knows he won’t get a response. He won’t ever get a response.

Napoleon turns at the first sign of movement, squeezing his eyes shut. The corridor lights up in a brilliant white, the bang reverberating through Illya. There’s a swarm of movement under the cover of the grenade, and then the sharp crack of bullets through the air. They pass straight through Illya, taking chunks out of the wall above Napoleon’s head as he ducks for cover. One of the men drops, and then another, and then Napoleon is moving, darting out of the alcove and across the hallway. There’s a door there, but it’s locked, and doesn’t open even when Napoleon shoves his weight against it.

“Fuck,” he curses, turning and returning fire from behind the meagre protection of the doorway.

Still, they keep coming. Illya reaches for a gun again and again, goes to snatch rifles from the dead men or lift grenades from their belts, but his hands pass through and he can’t touch anything. He can’t do anything.

Napoleon is desperate now, firing blindly, his eyes slits against the plaster dust slowly filling the air. The sharp bark of gunfire is echoing through the whole compound now.

“On your left!” Illya shouts, starting forwards.

Napoleon stumbles back a second later. There’s blood soaking through his sleeve, barely visible but for the slick sheen under the lights. A second burst of gunfire and he stumbles again, dropping heavily to one knee. His grip on the rifle loosens.

“Get up,” Illya says. He knows he won’t get an answer. “Napoleon. Get up.”

The rifle clatters to the ground as Napoleon presses a hand against his torso. It comes away bright red.

“He’s down,” someone calls out as Napoleon lurches forwards, fingers scrabbling for the rifle. It slips from his grasp, blood smeared across the barrel. “Anyone want to finish him off?”

Someone steps around the corner, rifle raised and firmly against their shoulder. There’s a slight grin curling their lips as they see Napoleon lying there.

“Get up, Cowboy,” Illya urges him, stepping between him and the gunman. “Get up. Get your pistol. Don’t let them win.”

There’s blood on Napoleon’s lips as he gasps for breath. He fumbles for the pistol in his holster, fingers slipping on the grip, but he grabs it and pulls it out. His hands are shaking as he aims it at the gunman, finger curling around the trigger.

The pistol clicks. Napoleon stares at it before it too slips from his fingers and clatters to the floor.

“Sorry, agent,” the other man says, raising his rifle. “If it helps, it’s nothing personal.”

Illya shoves at him, grasps at the rifle in his hands. He falls straight through. “Get up, Cowboy!” he says, panic fuelling desperation to burn through the despair. “Get up! I can’t help you. I can’t stop him. You need to get up!”

Napoleon pushes himself up, but his arm wavers and he falls back down against the floor. Red stains the floor, smearing under his hand as he tries again. He reaches for the rifle, but it’s kicked out of his grasp. Napoleon slumps on the floor. He looks up, staring at the barrel of the rifle above him.

“ _Napoleon_!” Illya screams.

The sound tears from his throat and echoes from something deep twisting in his chest, setting the walls shaking. The lights above their heads explode, shattered glass flying across the hall. The compound plunges into darkness.

A siren starts wailing, quietly at first and then louder and louder until the men are wincing and covering their ears. “Move, move, move!” one of them shouts. “Possible perimeter breach, everybody move out. This one’s going to be dead in a few minutes anyway.”

Illya turns to Napoleon. His eyes have slipped shut, breaths coming in shallow pants. There’s a thin trickle of blood from the corner of his lips, and far more beginning to pool on the floor beneath him.

Illya drops to his knees beside him, hands hovering only a few inches above his bloody chest. “Come on, Cowboy,” he urges him. “Get up. You’ve got to get up. Gaby is outside, she’s waiting for you, but you have to get up. You have to get to her.”

His hands hover over Napoleon, but he can’t bring himself to try and touch him. “You’re going to die,” he breathes. “You’re going to die and there is nothing I can do about it because I am _stuck here_. I can’t even touch you.” He chokes on a breath. “I can’t even touch you,” he repeats. “You’re going to die and I can’t even touch you.”

He tries to breathe, but there’s a weight on his chest that pulls down through his bones.

Napoleon is going to die. He is going to bleed out on this floor. And Illya can’t even hold his hand to say goodbye.

He’s not really aware of what he’s saying, only that it is a litany of pleas and begging spilling from his lips. Perhaps he’s finally gone mad. Perhaps this is what has driven him to insanity, the knowledge that he’ll never feel the warmth of Napoleon’s skin under his hands.

Napoleon suddenly groans, fingers curling around nothing. He grimaces, and his eyes flicker open.

They fix on Illya, and a small smile curls his lips. “Hey, Peril,” he rasps. “It’s good to see you.”

Illya stares at him. “You shouldn’t be able to see me,” he says. “You’ve never been able to see me.”

Napoleon reaches up and his hand is warm and whole as it closes around Illya’s wrist. “It’s okay, Illya,” he breathes. “It’s okay. I’ve got you now. That’s all that matters.”

“You shouldn’t be able to see me,” Illya just says. He reaches for Napoleon and this time he makes contact, his hands skimming down Napoleon’s chest. He can feel the heat of Napoleon’s skin, the hard planes of muscle that he knows so well.

He doesn’t want to let go. He never wants to let go of this.

But then there’s the feeling of blood beneath his fingers, and his breath chokes as guilt floods through him. “You’re dying,” he says numbly. “You’re going to die. That’s why you can see me. That’s why I can finally touch you.” His breath hitches, the desperation to just touch Napoleon again, to have him with him again, warring with the fierce panic flooding through him at the blood welling up beneath his hands.

He presses down on the bullet wounds. Napoleon groans, eyes briefly sliding shut before he forces them open and fixes his gaze on Illya. “That’s okay, Peril,” he murmurs.

“No, no it isn’t,” Illya says fiercely, panic lending fire to his voice and pushing it past trembling lips. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know why I stayed. I don’t know how this works, if I’ll ever get to see you again or if you’ll just go. You can’t die, you can’t just give in like this!”

“But I’ll have you,” Napoleon murmurs. He coughs, blood spattering down his chin. “You and me, Peril, that’s how it goes. You can’t have one without the other.” He reaches up, hand cupping Illya’s cheek. “Illya. Please.”

Illya’s eyes sting, and he presses down harder on Napoleon’s wounds. He doesn’t let himself reach up for Napoleon’s hand. No matter how much a part of him is screaming to just give in, to just hold onto Napoleon for whatever time he’s got, he keeps his hands pressing down on the bullet wounds.  “No, you don’t get to give up like this,” he tells him. “I’m dead. I died. I don’t want you to just give in.”

“It would just be easier,” Napoleon rasps. His thumb traces the corner of Illya’s lips. “Being with you.”

Illya chokes on a laugh. “Since when have we been easy?” he asks. “Since when have we ever done anything because it’s easy? You don’t get to give in just because it’s easier, Cowboy. I’m dead. There’s nothing you can do about that. But you’re not.” He presses down on Napoleon’s chest. The blood is warm beneath his hands, oozing between the gaps in his fingers. “Please, Cowboy. Please.”

Napoleon’s fingers close around Illya’s wrist, smearing blood across him. “I loved you so much,” he says, his breath rasping in his throat.

“You meant everything to me,” Illya says. “You still do. You don’t get to give up, not like this, not for me. I don’t want you to. Do you hear me, Napoleon?” He doesn’t reach for Napoleon’s hand. He won’t let himself reach for that comfort. “I don’t want you to die. Do you understand?”

“Peril,” Napoleon breathes. The grip around Illya’s wrist is growing lax, and Illya pushes down even harder.

“Cowboy,” he says. “Come on, Cowboy. Stay here. Just keep your eyes open. You don’t get to give in! Not now!”

Napoleon’s hand falls from his wrist and Illya can’t help but scream again, fear and grief tearing through him and echoing through the compound. He can still touch Napoleon, still feel the blood seeping from bullet holes in his chest, and he presses down harder, trying to will Napoleon’s heart to keep beating.

There are the sound of running footsteps. “Are you sure?” someone calls out.

Relief floods Illya when he hears a familiar voice answer. “Yes, I’m bloody sure!” Gaby snaps. “Hurry up!”

“Chop shop girl,” Illya says, and Gaby runs straight through him as she falls to her knees, skidding on the floor.

“Medic!” she calls out. “Get the medic here.” Her fingers fumble for a pulse, pushing up under Napoleon’s jaw. “He’s still alive, still breathing. Shot twice in the torso.” She glances behind her. “For the love of God, someone get the medic!”

People swarm around him and Illya lets go, falling back onto the floor. His hands feel cold.

The sky is clear outside. There is a swarm of motion as the paramedics load Napoleon into the ambulance that’s turned up, as more agents rush into the compound with rifles ready. The alarms are still wailing, bright red lights sweeping through the surrounding trees. Gaby’s face is lit in profile by the flashing lights of the ambulance, blue and red and then blue again.

Illya stares up at the sky. “Let him live,” he says. “If you’re up there, if you’re doing any of this, then just let him live. I know that I’m dead. I know I’m stuck here. He doesn’t have to be.”

His legs feel so heavy, but he stumbles towards the ambulance anyway. In the lights, the blood on his hands shines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hands up, who's heart did I mercilessly crush with this chapter?
> 
> Just so you all know, the latter half of the chapter you can also blame on somedrunkpirate, who helped me make that scene between Napoleon and Illya 100% angstier and way more soul-crushing. We shouldn't be allowed to work together- it's getting a little out of hand how much we spur each other on when it comes to writing angst and torturing all of you.
> 
> As a reminder, they're still working on the prequel to Drowning Deep and posting teasers about it as part of NaNoWriMo, so head on over to their tumblr [here](somedrunkpirate.tumblr.com) to get teasers! Be warned, though- I know a little of what's going to happen in the prequel, and I am Very Worried about how much it's going to destroy me.
> 
> I promise, it will all get better in the next (and final) chapter of this. Hand on heart, this does actually end happily.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross my heart, I promise that this ends happily. You might still cry, but it will end happily. I promise.
> 
> Thanks so much to somedrunkpirate for all their help with this story. If you want more angst, go and read their Pacific Rim AU, Drowning Deep. You will cry, but it will be worth it.

The door slides open, and Waverly closes it behind him with a quiet click. “How is he?”

Gaby looks up from the chair by the bed. “Alive, somehow,” she replies. “The doctors say he should be okay if he gets through the next day, but they’re surprised he didn’t lose more blood. With these bullet wounds, and how long it was before we found him, they think he should have bled out.”

“Solo is full of surprises,” Waverly just says. He picks up the chart from the foot of the bed, flipping through it. “I think there may be a few more to come, in the next week or so.”

Gaby, curled up in the chair next to Napoleon’s bed, shifts uneasily. “Sir,” she says. She pauses as Waverly turns to her, rolling some spare part from her pocket through her fingers. “I knew where he was,” she says abruptly. Waverly arches a brow, and she stares defiantly at him. “Don’t tell me I’m imagining things, because I know how absurd this sounds. But I knew where Solo was. That place was a maze, and somehow I could see the way to go. It was like I was following the wires in the building, or could follow on security cameras.”

Waverly says nothing, and Gaby shakes her head. “I don’t know, but I led the team straight to him. I don’t know how I did that.”

“And you are expecting me to have answers?” Waverly asks. “I don’t know everything, Teller, though I’m aware that a lot of this job consists of making sure people believe that I do. We are lucky to have Napoleon at the moment. I would focus on that right now, rather than questions you don’t know the answers to.”

Gaby looks over at Napoleon, unconscious and hooked up to multiple machines that are beeping reassuringly. “He shouldn’t have gone on that mission,” she says. “He shouldn’t have been allowed to go in alone. He wasn’t okay, he wasn’t anywhere near ready for this. We should have stopped him.”

“He is very good at lying,” Waverly says smoothly. “Even to his friends. And we were all wrapped up in our own grief to really notice what was wrong with him.” He sighs, and his face suddenly looks old. “I should have paid more attention. I shouldn’t have just given in and let myself believe what he wanted us to believe. But what’s done is done. Don’t dwell on the mistakes we’ve all made, Solo not the least.”

Gaby says nothing, and Waverly sticks his hands in his pockets. “You should get some rest, Teller. There’s nothing you can do here.”

Gaby shakes her head. “No, I think I’ll stay right here,” she replies firmly. “You always would allow Illya to stay if Solo was here, or the other way around.”

“Yes, but that was Kuryakin and Solo,” Waverly replies. “Their situation was different.”

“How?” Gaby snaps. She rounds on him, eyes flashing. “How is it any different? Solo wasn’t the only one who loved him!”

Waverly is cowed into silence, and Gaby continues, the words seemingly spilling out of her. “I lost someone that I loved as well!” she shouts. “I lost Illya, and now I’ve nearly lost Solo. I’ve been grieving too.”

“Teller,” Waverly says warningly, but Gaby shakes her head.

“No, I’m going to finish,” she says. “I’ve been upset and wondering what the hell to do and where to go from here, but no, I wasn’t part of Kuryakin and Solo, I’m not involved in their story. And everyone seems to think that means I’m not as lost as Solo, that there are levels to grieving, to missing someone else, and I was only one of his closest friends and not sleeping with him so therefore I don’t deserve as much grief as Solo did!”

Gaby’s chest heaves as she gasps for breath. “I lost him too,” she says. “I loved him too. Why can’t I grieve as well?”

“Nobody has said that,” Waverly tries, but it’s a poor excuse and they both know it.

“Nobody is thinking it consciously,” Gaby says. “But I’ve still noticed. People still looked out for me, still checked in or dropped by, but I came second to Solo.”

Waverly sighs. In a rare display of anything beyond his usual British mannerisms, he runs a hand over his face. “This has been a total mess from the beginning,” he tells her. “If I am being honest, I wasn’t expecting anything else. I’ve been through this before, many times over the years. Losing one of our own is never easy, never simple in the aftermath. Things don’t fix themselves in a matter of weeks, or even a matter of years.”

Gaby stares up at him. “I grew up in East Berlin,” she says. “I’ve lost plenty of people that I cared about. It doesn’t go away.”

“Yes, well, I suppose that you would know,” Waverly murmurs. He sticks his hands back in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “I think Solo will be okay. And I think things will be explained soon.”

“What does that mean?” Gaby asks.

Waverly just heads for the door. “Keep me informed of Solo’s progress,” he says over his shoulder as he leaves. “And look after yourself. I have to go and find who tipped them off that we were coming. There are a lot of people here just waiting to rain down hell on whoever we find.”

Illya watches all of this from the corner, where he’s been curled up ever since Napoleon came out of surgery. He stays there for a long time, watching Gaby eventually drift off in the chair, slumped at an awkward angle. The heart monitor beeps reassuringly.

It’s dark, well past midnight, when the door slides open again. Illya glances up to see Waverly silhouetted in the doorway. “Do you ever sleep?” he asks wearily. He’s given up on expecting any answer.

Waverly glances around the room, taking in Gaby curled up in her chair, Napoleon still unconscious in bed. His eyes slide right over where Illya is sitting on the floor, knees held loosely to his chest. “If you can hear me,” he murmurs quietly. “If you make it back- and I really hope that you do- come and find me. I’ll explain everything.”

Illya struggles to his feet. “Sir?” he asks.

Waverly just glances around the room one more time, and then leaves. Illya takes a step after him, but the heart monitor beeps behind him, and he can’t do anything but stay.

0-o-0-o-0

It takes two days for Napoleon to wake up. Two days of Illya sitting in the corner and waiting, watching Gaby do exactly the same thing in the bedside chair. Doctors and nurses come and go, reassuring Gaby each time that his vitals are getting better, that somehow getting shot in the chest and abdomen and bleeding out on the floor for nearly ten minutes before Gaby found him wasn’t enough to kill him. Waverly drops by multiple times every day, often followed by a few agents who make Gaby eat and take a shower.

He never elaborates on what he’d said that night when only Illya was awake to hear him. Neither does Gaby say anything else about how she knew where Napoleon was. There seems to be an uneasy truce between them at the moment, stepping around each other for the sake of not rocking the boat.

There are no blaring alarms or flashing lights, no nurses rushing into the room. Just Napoleon groaning as his eyes flicker open.

Gaby leaps up from her chair. “Solo,” she says, leaning over him. “Napoleon?”

Napoleon looks over at her. “Hey, Gaby,” he rasps.

Gaby’s jaw trembles. “You absolute, complete fucking idiot,” she says, her voice wobbling. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I… wasn’t?” Napoleon tries.

Gaby hiccups on a choked off laugh. “I would punch you if you didn’t have multiple bullet holes in you right now,” she says. “You can’t ever do this to me again.” She wipes at her eyes, and Napoleon reaches out, grasping at her hand. “I’m serious,” she says, regaining some control over her voice. “I’m not losing you as well as Illya.”

Napoleon squeezes her hand. “I’m sorry,” he rasps. “Gaby. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re not okay,” Gaby says fiercely. “Neither am I. We lost Illya, and that’s not okay. But you can’t pretend like you are okay and do stupid shit like getting yourself shot.”

“I didn’t mean to?” Napoleon tries again.

“But did you really mind?” Gaby asks, her voice breaking. She sits back down in the bedside chair, but doesn’t let go of Napoleon’s hand. “When you got shot, did you really mind?”

“Gaby…” Napoleon says, but Gaby just shakes her head.

“Answer the question, and don’t lie to me,” she tells him.

Napoleon sighs, wincing as he shifts on the bed. “No,” he says eventually. “I didn’t. I knew I was bleeding out and I was probably going to die, and I didn’t mind. I would have…I would have been with Illya. I wanted that.”

Gaby is silent for a long moment. “And now?” she asks eventually. “Do you still think that?”

Napoleon tries to speak, but his voice rasps in his throat and he coughs, grimacing at the movement. Gaby reaches for a cup of water, poking a straw between his lips. “Slow sips,” she says.

“I’ve done this whole circus before,” Napoleon says, pushing the straw away afterwards. “I know.” He settles back on the bed, fumbling for the morphine button and clicking it. “I don’t know, Gaby,” he says eventually. “Maybe? But…I think Illya wanted me to have a life. I shouldn’t give that up for him.”

He manages a small smile, squeezing Gaby’s hand. “It’s a work in progress.”

Gaby smiles back, brushing a few tears from Napoleon’s cheek. “That’s all I’ll ask for.”

It doesn’t take too long for nurses and doctors to come into the room, medical terms flung around the room and going straight over Illya’s head. He just waits in the corner, watching Napoleon get more and more exhausted as the seconds pass.

Finally, the doctors leave, and Gaby lets out a relieved sigh. “You look exhausted,” she says. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Illya gets to his feet as Napoleon slowly nods. “I love you, Cowboy,” he says to him, standing at the foot of the bed. “I never deserved everything you gave me, but I loved you for it.”

He wishes he could reach out and touch him one last time, that the last time he touched Napoleon wasn’t pressing down on his chest, trying to stop him from bleeding out, but Illya isn’t sure if he’s brave enough to endure the disappointment of his hand passing straight through. He settles for resting a hand on the end of the bed, watching Napoleon as he talks quietly to Gaby. “Take care of yourselves,” he says quietly. “I love you.”

He takes one last look at the two of them, and then turns and walks through the wall. The streets of New York are busy outside, like always. The constant murmur of the city carries on around them.

The stars aren’t visible overhead, but Illya tilts his head back and looks up anyway. “I’m done,” he says quietly. “Napoleon is going to be okay, and that’s why you kept me around, isn’t it? That’s why I’m still here. But he knows I want him to keep going, and he’s got Gaby and Waverly and everyone at UNCLE to be his family. He doesn’t need me here anymore.”

Somehow, in that moment, Illya can hear Napoleon, like he’s standing right next to him. “I’ll keep going, Gaby,” he is saying. “But I wish, more than anything, that Illya was here.”

Illya glances down at his feet. He can see the sidewalk through them. “Look after him,” he says, glancing up at the sky. “He deserves that.”

He fades out, and there is nothing but the city left behind.

0-o-0-o-0

He wakes up slowly.

He can hear the murmur of the city around him, cars rushing past. A siren wails in the distance and then falls silent. There’s a steady pattering, and as he slowly comes to he realises it’s the sound of rain. He can feel the droplets falling on his face, running down his nose and cheek to drip off his jaw.

He jolts awake.

He shouldn’t be able to feel the rain.

Illya pushes himself up, fingers scrabbling on the ground as he heaves himself off the ground. He’s surrounded by charred wooden beams and twisted steel girders, blackened and burned. The skeleton of a building stretches up above him, roof open to the grey clouds above. It’s nearly dark, and the shadows stretch long across the ground.

Illya sits up and stares.

He can feel the pitted concrete ground beneath him. When he runs his hand through the caked dirt and soot, it comes away and stains his fingers. He rubs some of the soot between his fingertips. He can feel the grains.

“I was dead,” he says, staring at his hand. “How am I here?”

There’s no answer, beyond the rumblings of the city around him.

Illya gets to his feet, stumbling as he slips on the wet concrete underneath him. He’s still wearing the same grey combat clothes he’d been wearing that evening he’d gone to case out the warehouse- this warehouse, maybe. The same clothes he’d been wearing all this time that he’d spent being a ghost. They’re dirty and stained, covered in soot and ash and sticking to his skin with the rain, but there are no tears, no gashes or burned edges.

Illya glances at the burned-out shell of the warehouse around him. “This doesn’t make any sense,” he says. “I was dead. I died in this explosion.”

_But they never found a body_ , something whispers within his own head. _They never proved it._

“You’re not helpful,” Illya mutters. He begins picking his way through the rubble towards the street, ducking under the tatters of police tape across the entrance. They stretch and snap in his hand as he grabs them, and he stares at them in amazement.

Illya takes a few seconds to orient himself on the sidewalk, and then he starts walking. Napoleon is a steady beat within his chest. The apartment is only a few miles from here.

This time of night, the streets are nearly empty. Illya ignores the city passing around him, thinking back through the past few weeks. He can still feel Napoleon’s blood beneath his hands, welling up from the bullet holes in his chest. He can still see the small smile that had curled Napoleon’s lips when he had looked up and seen him.

The last thing he remembers is Napoleon promising Gaby to keep going, but Illya knows how easy it is to break those sorts of promises. He picks up his pace.

“Hey!”

Illya keeps walking, not even noticing the call. The bell of a shop door rings, but he barely glances around at it.

A hand grabs his shoulder. Illya spins without even thinking about it, knocking the hand off his shoulder. His other hand goes for a non-existent gun at his hip.

The woman standing in front of him, huddling beneath an oversized umbrella, carefully pulls her hand back. She’s old, a heavy coat pulled on over her shoulders. “The weather is a little poor to be out without even a coat,” she says cautiously.

Illya stares at her. “You can see me?” he just asks.

The woman seems to study him carefully for a long moment. “It’s not my business to ask,” she says eventually. “But you look like you need to come inside and get out of this rain, get a hot meal. My shop is just over there. Come inside and dry off.”

Illya can’t stop staring at her. “What is the date?” he asks abruptly. “What day is it?”

“It’s Monday,” she replies steadily. “The nineteenth.”

“Of September?” Illya asks. The woman nods.

Illya struggles to breathe. That’s over two weeks since Napoleon was shot, since he thought he’d finally done his job and had disappeared. Any words that he could find stick to his tongue, clogging up his throat, and the elderly woman’s expression turns sympathetic.

“Eastern front?” she asks.

“What?” Illya manages to get out.

“I’ve seen that expression before, dear,” she says. “And it doesn’t help you’re wandering the streets in this weather without even a coat. My husband, god rest his soul, came back from the war a little like that. The least I can do is offer you somewhere to dry off. Is there somebody I can call for you?”

“No, it’s fine,” Illya says automatically. He glances down the street. The apartment is only a few blocks away now, tantalisingly close. “I have to…I’ve got someone I need to get to.”

The woman smiles. “Good for you, dear,” she says. “Let them take care of you, okay?”

“I won’t have a choice,” Illya replies. He glances down the street again. Napoleon is now a desperate pounding in his heart. “Thank you,” he says, and then he’s running.

The city is a blur past him. Water splashes up around his ankles and the rain soaks into his clothes, dripping down into his eyes until the streets smudge into the soft orange of the street lamps. He slides past two people walking down the sidewalk, ducking past their umbrellas, and stumbles when they shout after him.

He reaches the apartment building. He has no idea if the doorman will let him in, so he goes around the back. It’s easy enough to climb up the fire escape and jimmy open the fire exit on the first floor. From there he runs up the stairs, taking them two at a time. His breath comes in pants, his lungs just beginning to burn. There’s an ache in his legs that feels strangely out of place.

He doesn’t realise until he’s standing right outside the apartment door that he has no idea what he’s doing. Napoleon might not even be out of Medical yet. He might still be at UNCLE. He could have moved out of this apartment and Illya is just about to scare a random stranger.

He doesn’t know what else he can do. Beginning to tremble from soaked clothes clinging to his skin and with rainwater dripping in his eyes, he knocks on the door.

There’s a horrible long moment of silence, and then the sound of someone moving. “Hang on a second,” comes a familiar voice that makes Illya’s knees buckle and nearly sends him staggering. “I’m coming.”

There’s a series of clicks as the door unlocks, and then it swings open. Illya stares at Napoleon on the other side.

“Hello, Cowboy.”

Napoleon staggers back. “Oh my god,” he breathes.

“I’ve gone mad,” he says eventually, staring at Illya. “I’m hallucinating. You’re dead. You died and you’re _gone_. You can’t be here. This can’t really be you. You’re dead. You’re not here.”

Illya slowly steps into the apartment, shutting the door behind him. “I’m here, Cowboy,” he says. “I’m right here.”

“You _died_ ,” Napoleon gets out, his eyes wide. He stumbles back, hitting the back of the couch. “You’re dead. Illya.” His voice seems to get stuck on his name, and he heaves a breath. “ _Illya._ ”

Illya reaches out. His hand cups Napoleon’s cheek, the skin beneath his fingers warm and alive.

Napoleon is barely breathing, but he reaches up. His hand closes around Illya’s.

“Illya,” he breathes. His face twists and then sobs are spilling from his lips. His legs crumple and Illya follows him as he slumps down to the floor in a heap, chest heaving as he cries, lost and bewildered.

Illya crouches down next to Napoleon, pressing his forehead to his, hand cupping the back of his neck. “I’m here,” he says, over and over again. “I’m here.”

Napoleon heaves another breath. “I don’t…I don’t understand,” he gets out. His hands skim down Illya’s body, and Illya knows he is searching for burn marks or broken bones, any marks that the explosion that killed him really did kill him. “You died. I know you died.” He sucks in a breath and then another, visibly trying to get himself under some semblance of control.

“Was this some sort of setup?” he abruptly asks. “Did Waverly fake your death for some reason?”

“No, no, this was real,” Illya says. He pulls back, cupping Napoleon’s face in his hands. “I died, and I woke up in our bed, but you couldn’t see me. Nobody could see me. I couldn’t even touch you.” He has to pause, struggling to pull breath into his body. Tears are mingling with the rainwater still dripping down his face.

“I was a ghost,” he says. “And I spent weeks following you, trying to get you to realise that I was right there. I’ve been right there this whole time.” He presses his forehead against Napoleon’s. “I never left.”

Napoleon gulps in a breath, and then another. He reaches out and Illya goes willingly, curling into his embrace with a sob. “You’re here,” Napoleon breathes. “You’re really here.” His hands clutch at Illya, fingers digging into Illya’s back.

“Why are you wet?”

Illya laughs, and it feels like a world’s worth of weight leaves him. “I woke up in the warehouse,” he says. “It’s pouring it down outside.” Even as he speaks his body starts to remember the soaked clothes clinging to him, and he begins to shiver.

Napoleon pulls back. “You’re freezing,” he says. “Look at you, you’re shivering.” He looks like he’s about to say something else, but he trails off, staring at Illya’s face. “I thought I’d never see you again,” he murmurs.

Illya can’t help himself. He kisses him, Napoleon’s lips warm on his, his hands grasping at Illya as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss until the feel of Napoleon’s lips on his becomes everything.

Eventually they have to pull back, if only to breathe. There’s a bewildered smile on Napoleon’s face, like he still doesn’t quite believe what is happening but is more than willing to simply go along with it

 Illya understands the feeling perfectly.

“There’s so much I want to say to you,” he says.

There was so much he was selfish with, only saying it once dead and fairly sure Napoleon wouldn’t hear every word of it. So many things that he’d only said in the dead of night. Napoleon deserves to hear them.

“We have time,” Napoleon says. “We have a lot of time now. And I’m not letting you out of my sight for most of it.”

There’s a smile on his face, but Illya can hear the tremor in his voice, the way he reflexively reaches for him. Illya can’t help but go to him. He shivers as Napoleon’s hand runs down his back and lets himself tuck his head into the crook of Napoleon’s neck. He can smell him, that smell that he used to wake up to every morning. He didn’t realise how much he’d ached for it.

“Oh, Peril,” Napoleon murmurs. His arms tighten around him.

Illya realises he’s crying, sobs shuddering through his frame. There are a thousand words crowding his tongue that he wants to say, all those secrets he’d selfishly spilled in the dead of night when Napoleon couldn’t hear him, but none of them find their way forwards.

It doesn’t matter. Napoleon is warm against him. He can feel his hands gripping at him, feel the tremors running through Napoleon’s body as they cry. This is all he needs. This was all he was missing.

“I don’t understand any of this,” Napoleon says eventually, pulling back enough to wipe away the tears rolling down his face. He presses a hand to Illya’s cheek, his smile unspeakably tender. “Ghosts? Coming back to life? This all sounds like something out of one of your science fiction novels.”

He laughs. “I don’t particularly care. I’ve got you back, even if I don’t know how.” He laughs again, and the smile on his face goes from tender to blinding in its beauty. “I love you so much,” he says. “I never told you enough.”

“I knew,” Illya replies. “I always knew.” He kisses Napoleon again, relishing in the warmth of his lips, the way his hand grips the back of his neck. “I never deserved anything you gave me,” he murmurs against Napoleon’s lips. “And you gave it anyway.”

“Bullshit,” Napoleon replies. A grin quirks his lips. “You deserve everything. You should have the whole world.”

“I’ll settle for you,” Illya replies, and he kisses him again.

0-o-0-o-0

They drive into the underground garage at UNCLE to find Waverly’s secretary waiting for them on the steps. “He’s expecting you,” is all she says as Illya steps out of the car. Napoleon gets out and quickly circles around to Illya’s side, angling himself between the two of them.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” Illya says cautiously. He gives Napoleon what he hopes is a reassuring look as he glances at him and tangles his fingers with his. Napoleon squeezes back.

“Agents coming back from the dead are not the most surprising things that happen around here,” Deena tells him. Her expression softens. “We are beyond glad to have you back, though.”

“Is Gaby here?” Napoleon asks. “She wouldn’t answer her phone.”

“She’s upstairs with Waverly,” Deena says. “Come with me, and everything will be explained. I promise.”

Illya doesn’t see any other option but to follow. The elevator takes them straight to the top floor, Illya watching the numbers tick by. Napoleon’s hand is still in his. He doesn’t think he’s going to be ready to let go for a long while yet.

“He’s in his office,” Deena says as the elevator doors open. “I promise you, everything will be explained.”

“I was dead,” Illya says bluntly. Napoleon’s fingers twitch around his, and he squeezes them in a silent apology. “How can that be explained?”

Deena just smiles. “Oh, you’d be surprised,” she says. She walks off, and Napoleon gives Illya a questioning look.

“Don’t ask me,” Illya mutters. He glances around them, seeing nobody else, and tugs Napoleon in for a quick kiss. “Together, yes? Whatever this is?”

“I’m not leaving your side for anything,” Napoleon promises.

They walk into Waverly’s office together. Illya has barely managed to step foot inside when a solid mass hurtles into him from the side, sending him stumbling backwards. The mass slowly coalesces into Gaby as her arms wrap tight around his neck.

“Chop shop girl,” Illya says. He slowly raises one arm to hug her back, unsure of the reaction he’s going to get.

As soon as he touches her back, Gaby starts sobbing against his shoulder. “You utter bastard,” she gets out in between gasps for breath. “You complete and utter bastard. You are never going this to me again, do you understand? Never again.”

“I really don’t want to,” Illya replies. He hugs her back, pulling her tight and breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume. “I’m sorry, my chop shop girl.”

Gaby pulls back eventually, wiping under her eyes. “You should be,” she says fiercely. She turns behind her, and Illya looks up to see Waverly watching them from behind his desk, British smile firmly in place. “Explain,” Gaby says, her voice sharp. “Everything you just told me. All of it. Tell them.”

“Take a seat, gentlemen,” Waverly says. Illya sits hesitantly, not letting go of Napoleon’s hand. Gaby slips her hand into his, and he keeps hold of her as well.

“Firstly, I am beyond glad to see you back, Kuryakin,” Waverly says. “I really wasn’t sure this time.”

“You didn’t think I was dead?” Illya asks. Gaby hiccups slightly at that, and he squeezes her hand.

“Oh no, I was sure of that,” Waverly says. He steeples his fingers in front of him. “Let me begin from the beginning, and give me the benefit of the doubt. It will make sense.”

Illya nods, and Waverly looks mildly satisfied. “Every agent who has spent long enough at this agency, who gives enough for this agency and our cause, they go through at some point what I have come to call an…incident. Granted, I have not seen an incident this severe for a very long time, if ever. I doubted if it was really one of these things, for a while, and not just a freak accident.”

Illya glances at Napoleon. He looks as confused as Illya feels. “So Illya…dying, you set this up?” Napoleon asks, his voice flat.

“Good heavens, of course not,” Waverly says. He actually looks shocked at the implication, and seems to take a moment to gather himself. “I have no control over these incidents,” he continues. “No knowledge of when they might occur, or what they might be. I knew that, given how much the three of you have done for this agency and what we represent, that something might occur sooner rather than later, but I had no way of knowing the magnitude of the past few weeks.” He pauses again. “Had I known, I think I might have broken the rules and warned you.”

“So I died, and came back to life a few weeks later?” Illya asks. “Is that it? What is the point of that?”

“I believe, as do most others, that the incidents are tests of some sort,” Waverly replies. “For the person directly affected, and for the ones around them as well, sometimes. What happened to you, when you died?”

“I was…I became a ghost, I think,” Illya says slowly. “I was here, I could hear and see everything going on, but I couldn’t interact with anyone. I could barely interact with furniture. The most I was able to do was make a lamp explode when I was angry.” There’s a sharp intake of breath from Napoleon at that, but he remains silent. Illya squeezes his hand, and gets an answering squeeze in return.

“I suspected that might have occurred,” Waverly says. “It is not up to me to say what this test was, or who it was for, but suffice it to say that you have passed. I wish it had not happened this way, but alas, the powers that be decide these things and not myself.”

“The powers that be,” Napoleon says sceptically. “Do you mean the government? NATO? The fucking UN?”

Waverly laughs. “Oh no, the literal powers that be in our case,” he says. “Maybe someday you’ll meet him…it…them. But we’re getting off topic, I’m afraid. Agents come back from these tests…different.”

Now it’s Illya’s turn to look deeply sceptical. “If you tell me I am now a zombie, I am getting up and leaving,” he says. “This isn’t science fiction.”

“It might help, Kuryakin, to suspend your cynicism and keep an open mind,” Waverly says pointedly. “Remember, you just spent a good month as a ghost. What you used to believe might not be the whole of it.”

He glances down at his desk. “Deena has a certain file that will probably be quite important,” he says. “It is on her desk outside this office. Would you mind fetching it, Kuryakin?”

Illya arches a brow, but Waverly just stares back. “Fine,” he mutters. He gets up, untangling his fingers from Napoleon and giving him an apologetic look.

There’s only one file on Deena’s desk. He grabs it, not bothering to open it as he turns back for the door.

He stutters to a stop. The door is shut behind him. He doesn’t remember opening it.

The door knob is solid under his hand as he turns it. He opens the door to see everyone staring at him.

“Did I just…”

Napoleon somehow finds enough control from somewhere to shut his gaping mouth and nod.

“Well, this is excellent,” Waverly says, a real smile on his face. “I suspect that any…talents that you acquired as a ghost have lingered. From previous experience with other agents, it will take a while for them to fully manifest and for you to be able to control them.”

Illya slowly lowers himself back into his chair and grips the armrests. Napoleon is still staring at him. “You…you walked through a door,” he gets out eventually. “An actual fucking door. Christ.”

Illya reaches for him, gripping his hand. “You walked through a door,” Napoleon whispers. He stares between Illya and the door. “That is so unfair. Why can’t I do that?”

“What, so can you waltz into any museum without setting off alarms?” Illya asks. “Nice try, Cowboy.” Still, it will be a useful skill for missions. No more having to wait for Napoleon to pick locks or break open safes.

“Hey, I can pick a lock in thirty seconds,” Napoleon mutters, reaching for the file that Illya brought in with his free hand. “You’re not waiting for anything.”

He looks up when everyone else falls silent. “What?” he asks. “It’s true.”

“Cowboy,” Illya says slowly. “I didn’t say that out loud.”

Napoleon’s jaw actually drops. “What?”

“Excellent,” Waverly says, clapping his hands together. “I thought that this might happen. All three of you have been tested. Apparently, all three of you have passed.”

Illya and Napoleon turn to Gaby as one. “I knew where you were,” she says quietly. “In that compound. It was like I could see you on security cameras. And ever since then I’ve…well, I don’t know. Suffice it to say that electrical devices are somewhat temperamental around me at the moment.”

Illya can’t find anything to say. He grips Napoleon’s hand with one hand and reaches for Gaby with the other.

Waverly pulls out three files from his drawer. “Your first assignment with this new knowledge,” he says. He smiles, his teeth shade too sharp to be just human. “Welcome to UNCLE.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I'm not saying that I have a comprehensive plan for a sequel to this story, but you all know my track record with accidentally writing sequels, so watch this space...
> 
> Thank you as always to all you wonderful people who have read this fic, left kudos and commented on it. You mean so much to me, you all really do. In terms of other stories, Narrative Casualties is still in the middle of being published, and I am working on the third part to that series, Death of the Author (and yes, it is as angsty as the name might imply) right now. There's still plenty more to come after that as well, so I'm not going anywhere!


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